Monozuki
by Under the Oak Tree
Summary: A Weiss Kreuz-Yami no Matsuei work. The Shinigami wants to know; why would mortals willingly assume burdens that had already broken the strongest Shinigami? And meanwhile, a certain doctor wants revenge - because he has nothing else to live for.
1. Monozuki 1: Aya and White Roses

**Monozuki**** – **_An Idle Curiosity_

_A Weiss Kreuz/Yami no Matsuei crossover._

**By Kelly**

**Disclaimer: **All copyrighted works belong with their owners. We're just playing.

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**Monozuki**** 1 – Aya and White Roses**

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The work was monotonous – cold, disinterested gaze taking in the elaborate arrangement or a simple twist and tie, calculate the cost of flowers and decorations (he scowled briefly for one girl's; Omi had added too many asters to her bouquet of gladiolas), ring up their purchase, growl out the amount, take their money (while adroitly twisting his hand out of the grasps of the too-enthusiastic ones) and give them back the change, if any. 

It was an almost mindless task, easy and repetitive, as hypnotic as falling into the rhythm of cut, slash, parry, stroke. A _kata _dance could elevate him beyond the cares of this world as three hours behind the cash register of the _Koneko _could.

And even though it was only half-past eight in the morning, his body reveled silently in the familiarity of working the register. Here was comfort, here was routine, here was not where Aya-chan lay cold and unmoving.

The ten thousand yen note crumpled in his sudden grip, prompting a squeak from the owner of the small hand that had reached out to take it.

"A-Aya-san?"

He didn't feel the need to alleviate the girl's nervousness by giving her even a token, apologetic smile. Let the chain-smoker do it if he wanted to; god knew the playboy had experience enough.

And as though his uncharitable thought had summoned the man, Yohji's easy drawl drilled in his ears, a hand roughened at the tips from wire handling tugging the abused note out of his fingers. The blond ignored the cold, violet-glare thrown his way and the former P.I. shot the unfortunate girl a grin. "There ya go, Rika-san. Ignore this grump – he woke up on the wrong side of bed this morning."

Rika, _how on earth did Yohji keep track of all their names? _giggled and blushed, another conquered name to add to the list of Kudoh Yohji's girls.

He wasn't going to give his teammate the satisfaction of a comeback but neither could he distract himself with another customer. Amazingly enough, even though there was still another fifteen minutes to go before the morning schoolgirl rush had to leave the shop, the hormone-driven she-devils were not draped around the other _Koneko_'staff'. In fact, almost the entire gaggle of them were gathered around the storefront window, pointing and giggling (_do they do anything else? _so that little voice in his head snarled) at something across the street.

Aya's height was more than adequate that he didn't even need to crane his head to see over the clustered girls, still cooing and aah-ing. He spotted their newest obsession easily enough.

There was a simple, white painted bench on the sidewalk across the street, overlooking the flower shop. Most days the bench was a whimsical piece, more of a decoration than serving any real use. Today though, a blond angel graced it.

Aya had to wonder where that sentimental drivel came from.

Granted, the boy (he couldn't be more than sixteen years old) was beautiful. Extraordinarily so. Even from this distance, he could say for sure that the youth's wheat-gold hair was as silky as it looked; it couldn't be anything but. With porcelain fair skin, a slender body encased in a denim jacket, orange t-shirt (_Hah!__ Take that Kudoh! I'm not the only one who thinks there's nothing wrong with orange!) _faded jeans and sneakers, the boy was an urban dream – too much to be real.

Aya was inclined to blame the tea he had this morning for all the sappy trash his mind seemed to be capable of.

"Excuse me, could you wrap this up please?"

The low, smooth baritone was unexpected. Aya spun around, too fast for a simple florist, and grabbed the glove-clad hand of a stranger who smiled rather quizzically at his 'rudeness'.

Customer, not attacker, was what Aya's mind frantically repeated as he tried to let go of the grip he had around the man's wrist but he was frozen. His mind shouted 'Innocent!' but his instinct screamed 'Danger!'

The hand he was manhandling belonged to a slender male, late twenties most likely. The dark, two-piece suit, crooked tie, scuffed leather shoes and a black trench coat gave the man a rather puzzling air – ingenuousness with a tint of deliberation. The ensemble was at odds with the man's friendly smile. No one dressed like that except for a _yakuza_, especially with dark sunglasses topping it all off.

"Ah. . Aya-kun?" Omi, ever the peacemaker, polite till the day he died, tugged ineffectually at their hands. "This is a customer, Aya-kun!"

He let go with a scowl. Damn the man (and Yohji, and Rika and the blond apparition) for ruining his day.

"How can I help you?" he asked crisply with no hint of apology. Somewhere to his right, Omi was hyperventilating at his rudeness while money exchanged hands between Yohji and Ken.

Infuriatingly, the man's smile (why won't he take off those damn sunglasses?) only grew bigger. His leather gloved-hands cradled a dozen white roses tenderly, a curious tilt to his head.

"Could you wrap this up for me please?" he repeated. "Just a ribbon would do. 'Soka wouldn't like anything too elaborate."

Why the hell would he care what this 'Soka thought of anyway? Aya took the roses, a bit more gently than his demeanor suggested (the flowers were blameless after all), and stalked over to the scarred table they used for arrangements. He was finished in just a couple of minutes, and even rang up the man's purchase. It was after pocketing his change and the roses were safely enclosed within the cradle of one arm that the man took off his sunglasses.

Aya's breath caught. For one dizzy moment, he thought time and the world had stopped its movement, that everything else was at a standstill.

_Violet _eyes stared into his. A shade darker than his own and even more compelling. Sweat, icy-cold, popped out, running an uncomfortable rivulet down his spine.

"Thank you," the man said, still with that easy smile as he pocketed his shades. "'Soka is going to love this."

Aya could only watch dumbly as the man turned, moving with a slow, sure grace that parted the girls easily and his mind duly noted how a few of their faces went slack with sudden adoration. The man was that handsome. Eerily so. Because underneath that easy smle, Aya sensed. . .something. And for the life of him, he could not say what it was. Only that he had never felt this. . . insignificant before. Not even when confronting the powers of Schwarz for the first time.

His eyes tracked the man's lithe form out of the shop and across the street. He took absent notice of the girls' excited whispers of _who is that gorgeous creature? Waah, two cute guys in one morning! Lucky! _and he kept on staring, even as, unsurprisingly, the man approached the blond boy on the bench and presented the roses with a bow.

The blond said something, prompting a laugh from the taller man and Aya would have dismissed this Alice morning for sheer fancy if not for what happened next.

The young boy looked past his companion and stared straight into his eyes. He was sure of it. The distance and murmurs between them, the plate glass window, all of it disappeared under that gaze that refused to let go and Aya found himself gasping for breath.

It was over in a second. The boy broke the contact first and together, man and ethereal child walked away, white petals trailing in their wake.

"Hey, Aya. . .you okay?"

He ignored Ken and he ignored the curious stares of the girls still crowding the shop. When he tried to sleep later that night, his dream was riddled with violet eyes that laughed and green eyes that judged.

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**To be continued. . .

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**Kelly: **It was supposed to be a drabble. Just a simple foray into a what-if world. How the hell did it evolve a plot is beyond me. Yes, there are more coming up. Damn the plot bunnies! All I wanted was to know what will happen if Weiss ever met Shinigami! The next Monozuki's is Lisa's. She too, helped the plot evolve. There is a conspiracy going on.


	2. Monozuki 2: Hisoka and Red Roses

**Monozuki**** – **_An Idle Curiosity_

_A Weiss Kreuz/Yami no Matsuei crossover._

**By Lisa**

**Monozuki**** 2 – Hisoka and Red Roses**

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**Review replies by Kelly/Lisa: **Lovely to get such good response from you all. Thank you very much! Kelly would like to assert here, again, that this was supposed to be drabbles. Drabbles! But! It now has a Plot! Argh! But it won't be as long as our other stories.

PS: Yes, we are trading chapters. Kelly does the first, Lisa the second, back to Kelly, Lisa etc etc etc. Wakarimasu? Haaaaiiii! By the way, the flowers symbolizes what each chapter is about. Doubtless, we'll be running out of flowers soon. . .anyone knows what plant symbolizes insanity?

This site sucks.

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Flowers… The idiot leaves me sitting on a park bench, in the sun, in full view of a group of mortal assassins, and he brings me flowers… I grab the proffered bouquet – roses, white, a full dozen it looks like – and with a hard glare at the shop across the way, stomp off down the sidewalk. The jackass can follow me, or not, as he chooses.

And being Tsuzuki, he chooses to follow.

And, also being Tsuzuki, he's laughing at my pique

"Was that _really_ necessary?" Reflected in his thoughts is the image of annoyed summer green eyes flickering upward, peering through a shimmering fringe of sunlit gold, until a slender hand impatiently brushes the hair aside. I add a feral growl when my grinning partner just had to ruffle the sleek strands, sending the whole mess cascading back into my face once more. Tsuzuki laughs, delighted and cheerful, no matter that my best glare should be sending him screaming back to Meifu by now. I try to hold in a sigh of exasperation, and of course it escapes.

"What necessary? I _like_ your hair. See?" he replies guilelessly, intent on helping out the gentle summer breeze in its task as he again reaches for the fluttering stuff. He nimbly skips a step to the side as I, his much, much younger companion, swat at his teasing fingers.

"Not that! Idiot! I meant the flower shop." The abused bouquet of white roses is thrust in the taller man's direction, both as accusation and reminder. Tsuzuki's smile turns fond, and I'm helpless to prevent an answering thaw in my own heart. So I crank up the ferocity of my scowl by a notch, and pretend to hate him, like I did in the early days before he weaseled his way into my life so thoroughly.

"Lovely, aren't they? White roses symbolize a pure love, 'Soka-chan."

Petals of that pure, tender white, better than snow, by far better than sakura, are drifting on the errant wind. They flutter from the bouquet, and swirl around us in our own, personal storm. No, not a storm; nothing so violent, more like butterfly wings, cut adrift. And distracted by visions of them, and of my lover, my growls become touched by thoughts of vengeance, almost resolving into impolite words. But the beginnings of a blush is spreading across my nose and cheekbones, and Tsuzuki is thinking about how dainty the shape of my nose is, delicate and straight… aristocratic. And that's a concept that I don't much like, reminding me as it does of my esteemed Father, and the generations of Kurosaki, may they rot in the lower reaches of Hell. Tsuzuki brushes _that_ thought away, and leans down till his breath just stirs the fine hair curling over one pink-rimmed ear, and murmurs, "So _kawaii__…_ I want to take you home and do indecent things… All with rose petals strewn across the sheets."

"Baka." I snap, but I'm shivering, too, from the sincerity of the looped feedback, and it comes out weakly, followed by "You need red ones for that." I don't even want to ask what dark pit in my mind spit _that_ out. Tsuzuki's laughter is uproarious and his arm is slipping familiarly around my shoulders, hugging me close as we continue to walk, side by side.

"I didn't know that you were so well versed in the language of flowers." the taller Shinigami remarks happily. Caught beneath his arm, I shrug.

"Not hardly." I answer dryly. "Everyone knows that red roses are for passion." And there goes my mouth – again – running off and leaving me gaping in the dust. If Kannon is merciful, maybe I'll die my second death right about now, and I won't have to face the consequences of my subconscious taking control. My subconscious, which has obviously decided that today is a great day to steal the show… Enma help me, now I'm thinking about what _he'd_ look like naked: pale golden glory of his skin, and rich warmth of his messy chestnut hair, lying back against snowy sheets with a drift of rose petals, dark as wine, bright as fire, scattered across him. Maybe one would cling to the corner of his mouth, like a sinful butterfly…

This is so _not_ helping.

"Ah." Years of practice is keeping Tsuzuki from saying any more, but he radiates smugness like a cat presented with a filled bowl of cream, and a catnip mouse, both. As the token empath in our relationship, I roll my eyes in resignation, then hesitantly sneak my own arm inside the rumpled back coat, and around my partner's waist. It's hot in there, baking under the persistent rays of the sun. The embarrassment of being seen acting affectionate in public is outweighed by a rare desire to touch, and I find myself yielding with as much grace as I can summon to the temptation.

Tsuzuki's ambling, lazy stride is ideally suited to allowing somebody smaller to keep pace, without making an issue out of which of us has the longer legs, and which one will never grow any taller. And so long as Tsuzuki is simply a slacker who takes forever to get anywhere, my admittedly prickly pride won't require me to take exception at being accommodated.

It's like any of a hundred other compromises in our lives; not remarked upon, just there. A natural consequence of me being stuck at sixteen for as much eternity as we can stand.

I don't want to think about this; would in fact much rather return to our earlier topic of conversation. Accusingly, I grumble, "You still haven't told me why we're continuing the investigation. Last night we ascertained that those four were the cause of the string of unexplained deaths in Tokyo recently. Since there's nothing supernatural involved, why don't we just slip a tip to the police, and let them take care of the problem?"

Tsuzuki shrugs, a careless, foolish roll of broad shoulders inside that ridiculous coat of his. I squash the desire to help him slip out of it, and to maybe take off his tie, and undo the top button of his shirt… It's warm in the sunlight, a perfect day for basking like a couple of hedonistic cats, for letting Amaterasu stroke our fur… Damned if those roses, and the heady scent that they give off isn't sneaking back into my brain again. I shoot an accusing glare Tsuzuki's way, but he's full of innocent thoughts of pie, and of brownies, and other deserts. But then a familiar, grim darkness creeps in, and his mind goes still and serious; this is the Tsuzuki who commands the Divine Twelve, and who can counter magic and demons with a speed that leaves me breathless, unable to keep pace even with the advance warning empathy can provide. The intelligence that he hides behind masks of silly good humor, and carelessness looks me in the eye and says simply, "It's hard to explain… but I keep wondering _why_. Why do they kill? There's no evil, or malice in their behavior. And, certainly the world is a better place without those they kill. But why would someone who is not Shinigami choose this path? I just want to know."

And now that he's made it concrete, has used words to give it form and substance, I realize that I have to know, too, what could drive mortals to live like we do.

Like Shinigami.

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**to be continued**

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**PS: **Should this site act like an unmitigated a$$ again, and we (Kelly & Lisa) somehow disappear from , please get the latest news from (remove the spaces between): groups . yahoo . com / group / shadowsofthefox or find us at what could possibly be our new archive, mediaminer . org, that very site that does not believe in acting like jacka$#. Thank you.


	3. Monozuki 3: Kyo and Lavender

**Monozuki**** – **An Idle Curiosity

_A Weiss Kreuz/Yami no Matsuei crossover._

**By Kelly**

**Monozuki 3 – Kyo and Lavender (Re-worked)**

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Kyo rarely remembered what day of the week it was, let alone the date or month. He didn't even dare to try and guess the year or kami-sama forbid, which emperor currently reigned.

_(He was constantly amused when reminded that it was now the Heisei era, and not Showa or Genroku. When pressed, he would admit to remembering the relatively peaceful times of Taika, never mind that it left the majority of his listeners baffled, and his partner, shifting uncomfortably with memories neither recalled.)_

Time was of little meaning to a Death god, and lesser still when they were cocooned by the unchanging womb that was Meifu. In his private thoughts, Kyo liked to theorise that Enma-sama did it so, so that when he sent his Shinigami out to the crueler, harsher, more _vibrant_ world of the living, their return to where they belonged would be all the more appreciated for it. He was, as did Takashi. Meifu meant their little apartment that was a world of their own; of secrets shared and laughter, food fights on Saturdays with sex against the kitchen counter or on the floor (neither were too picky about where) and house-cleaning on Sundays (after everything they did on Saturdays, the apartment _badly_ needed cleaning by the time Sunday rolled around). Then there was that little ramen stall two streets down, ran by that charming kitsune and his cute cub (Kyo didn't care much for the kitsune odon – he _hated_ fried tofu – but Takashi loved it). He couldn't forget as well, the carefully tended sakura park that sprawled for miles next to the Ministry complex, with its little grottoes and shaded valleys. His favourite spot was next to a nameless stream – barely more than a bubbling brook – shaded by a cherry tree so old and ancient, its very trunk was twisted into the shape of a bent, old man, the frothy pink petals its beard and long hair weeping into clear waters.

_(Why he liked that particular sakura? Well, there was a very convenient boulder right at its exposed roots, perfect to lie back on, or, as a particular situation called for it, for him to use as a support when Takashi tore his nice slacks and pounded into him, dry, shouting his name over and over again and—)_

He was getting sidetracked. A sigh, and a slow rotation of his neck, resulting in wince-inducing pops of abused vertebrae, had a human mother throwing him a scolding look for the bad example he was giving her impressionable young son. Kyo gave the woman an absent smile, but it didn't manage to mollify the irate woman. He watched her go quizzically, wondering why a living soul was in Meifu, when they had no active cases currently that required sheltering a soul (or Tsuzuki wrangling another favour from the Count. When _that_ happened, everyone knew. Tsuzuki's wails were _loud_). The seeming youth stared at her and her son's retreating back for some time, trying to work the puzzle out but before long, he was jostled rudely, insincere apologies muttered by whomever it was that did it and even, a rude, "Do your daydreaming elsewhere, you idiot!"

Oh. He wasn't in Meifu, wasn't he? He tilted his head back, phasing unconsciously out of sight, and out of the minds of the humans who barely gave notice for the young man who disappeared in the blink of an eye, taking in the skyscrapers that reached for the heavens, the glaring neon lights competing with the murky sun for attention, and he breathed in the toxic, slow-murder sludge of Tokyo air. No, definitely not Meifu. That haven had a certain, dated feel to it, like that of a post-war Japan; a firebird emerging from its ashes and embracing the new, while stubbornly clinging to its past of rice paper screens and kimonos on weekends.

When Kyo remembered to return his attention back to earth, and not the dizzying sky that beckoned him to join, he found himself on the ledge of a building. Which one, he didn't care to know. They were all the same in the end; dead monstrosities built with the bones and skin of the earth. Sometimes, Kyo mused, head cocked to the side, listening, as the wind whispered in his ear, he was very much tempted to breathe life again into the murdered beasts, and allow them to seek their retribution against thoughtless humans. But a glance over at his partner, calmly sipping green tea while reading the day's edition of _Asahi_, would usually convince the elemental mage not to. Takashi would Not Be Pleased at the result, capitalized letters very much intended.

He shook his head, black, silky strands flying into his face and stinging his eyes, the wind's little jab at his dismissal of them and stood up, toes peeping over the very edge. The whole of Tokyo, well, northern Tokyo at least, because south or somewhere thereabouts meant the Tsukiji, and seeing all those dead animal souls flying about (never mind that they were just fish) was disconcerting, was spread out before him. The shinigami did not know where his husband was, but the lack of anything urgent prodding his conscience said he had nowhere to rush to, really, and he conveniently ignored the little fact that lately, his memory wasn't all that good to begin with. His eyes roamed over the jagged skyline, trying to decide, and if asked, he would have answered that he wasn't relying on sight alone of course. That was just silly. The smog in Japan's capital was legendary for a reason. No, he relied on other senses of course, and the pull on his magic was varied and multiple in its sources. One in particular, he honed in on. Kyo closed his eyes, tilting his head back and opening a little of himself, inviting more of the other in.

_DeathBloodGuiltJoyAngerHatredDeathDeath_

_Mortal._

His blanked eyes opened, unseeing as his mind processed the flood of information which he dampened into a trickle with the ease of years. He knew that brand of aura well, having sampled it so recently. It was rare to encounter such….intensity and not of Muraki's cause. That it took all four of them to leave such a stain on the city's magical grid, to match that lone, insane doctor was not something most people would bother about. But their circumstances were what triggered the Shinigamis' interest, and – heaven help him when Tatsumi finds out because he _will_ - Tsuzuki's inquisitiveness. A faint smile lit the young man's face, and it took less than a thought to relocate himself to the _Koneko no Sumi ie_.

He stared upwards at the bright, pink sign, a little taken aback at the large, anime-like kitten that waved its paw cheerily at passerbyes. _A little…tacky for assassins, _he thought, though he had to concede, it made for a disarming cover.

"Can I help you?"

Kyo flinched, stepping back in alarm because he didn't realize his invisibility had faded away, leaving him in the mortal's plain view. He forgot about the kerb though, and his heel met empty air. It would have been an embarrassing trip, but a slim hand, leaner than Hisoka's, grabbed hold of his, and pulled, the strength in that grip startling the Shinigami.

"Woah! Careful there! Are you alright?"

The boy before him wore a green apron with the shop's name in pink, hair a dirty dark blond with guileless eyes shades darker than his own. Tsukiyono Omi was what the background check had revealed, or rather, Takatori Mamoru. A scion of the line the boy's partner had sworn to eradicate. Life, the elemental mage pondered, was a bitch sometimes. So was Death, when it came to it.

"Sir? Are you sure you're okay?"

The concern was real, and hardly feigned. Sincerity shone in those jewel-bright eyes, and Kyo was suddenly reminded of Tsuzuki – not the color, but the shade. The shadows in both were deep and murky, and hinted at depths he did not dare tread.

"Shiozaki," he said softly, and the boy-assassin blinked in surprise. "My name…is…Shiozaki—" and not…something else. Not…Iz…the memory slipped away, bright and elusive, too fast to be caught hold of, leaving him frustrated and impotent with the frustration of wondering _why_ he was frustrated. "I'm too young to be called 'sir'." A private joke, between him and his partner and Kyo ached suddenly with the need to be with Takashi, to have his strength and embrace and who cared that he played right into the part of a good little uke when it meant safety and care and love? But the human still held on to him, and Kyo knew that to phase out in front of these humans was A Very Bad Idea, according to Tatsumi. Capitalized letters again, very much intended.

"Shiozaki-san then." Tsukiyono's smile was bright and friendly, and as sincerely caring as his words as he ushered the bemused Shinigami into the air-conditioned store. "Please, come in. You look a little pale, it must be the heat getting to you." A little confused (how could such an efficient killer wear such a gentle façade that seemed so earnest?), and in a way, _a_mused, Kyo allowed himself to be chivvied into a plastic folding chair that was previously occupied by a bouquet of roses and baby's breath, the fine hairs at the back of his neck rising in response when the other two assassins turned to face him.

Fujimiya Aya – or was it Ran? – made for an imposing, if silent figure behind the counter, small stacks of bills efficiently sorted and tied into proper bundles even as cold, dispassionate eyes assessed the only customer in the store, cataloguing his threat level. Now _that_, was something Kyo was very familiar with, thanks to Terazuma. Likewise, he was scrutinized and dismissed easily by the other. Ken…Hidaka Ken, former soccer player who had an assured future in the J-League, or so everyone assumed. Amazing how a little scandal could destroy a person's career. He could have been one of them, and the thought brought the familiar patina of longing that Kyo easily quashed. Not a scandal-ridden former star – no! But perhaps, a young, bright talent in soccer. He had the promise of a scholarship after high school, and interested scouts for the youth league. But death had a way of screwing up even the best laid plans. It was long before this Hidaka's time though, so he was confident that he would be spared a tongue-lashing by the formidable Secretary of the Bureau.

"Here, maybe this will help."

He accepted the sweating glass automatically, but flinched when a cool cloth touched his forehead, water sloshing over the sides of the glass.

"Oh, sorry!" Tsukiyono was contrite, and apologetic as he dabbed at the stains with the hem of his apron. Long fingers, his own, the pads calloused from hours of holding the bokken in the dojo, covered the boy's, stilling its frantic haste.

"It's alright," he smiled, but the expression faltered when he realized just why all three assassins looked at him so oddly and why Tsukiyono was a veritable mother hen. He wore no shoes, and had on no jacket. Clad only in a shirt a little too large for his frame – Takashi's, obviously – and jeans now dampened with water spots, he made for a pretty pathetic picture. He studied his bare toes, forehead creasing in concentration. He didn't remember leaving the apartment, but he obviously did, if he was in Chijou and not Meifu. But surely he wouldn't be silly enough as to leave without a jacket, socks and shoes, would he?

_And if you'd be so kind as to tell me the date and year, Shiozaki-san, _whispered a cold, little voice at the back of his mind, and Kyo conceded defeat gracefully.

"No shoes," he murmured, and he was grateful that his feet were clean at least. He had not fully manifested himself in the physical plane and little things like cold and dirt mattered very little.

_Odd then, why you could feel the damp towel, yes?_

The boy-assassin turned his hand, capturing his own and squeezing gently. "Were you mugged, Shiozaki-san?" he asked gently. "Or did you run into some trouble?"

Kyo could sense Fujimiya and Hidaka both zeroing in, no matter that he registered low on their radar. He wondered what they would make of him if he answered that he merely left his shoes back at home, in the Land of the Dead?

"I'm looking for flowers," he said instead, easily ignoring the boy's confusion, gently disengaging his hand from Tsukiyono's. Strangely enough, the boy's warm skin felt scalding hot. "What do you recommend?"

Tsukiyono drew back warily, though the concern never left his eyes as he studied the strange male now perched on the store's chair like a lost waif. His child's fingers twitched, as though itching for a poison dart (curare, Watari had reported. It paralysed the muscles, stiffening the body long before rigor mortis sets in) and it cued his partners who tensed, poised on the balls of their feet, ready to attack or defend. Kyo barely noted it, attention fixed on a bucket of lilies waiting to be moved into the cooler. "I like lilies," he sighed, reaching out to snag a stalk, uncaring how the move made Hidaka's grip on the broom handle whiten.

The stalk he held had only one fully blossoming flower, but the perfume was heady enough, tingling his senses and enticing his magic from slumber. It made him a little drunk, a little tipsy, on which he blamed what he said next to the wary boy-assassin.

"It smells lovely, doesn't it? It almost masks the scent of blood you wear."

Kyo would have died then (again), or at the very least, experienced Weiss Kreuz's skills firsthand sans Kudoh Yohji, if Tatsumi, bless his blackened and evil soul, had not stepped in with his impeccable timing.

"Kyo. We were looking for you," the kagetsuki said quietly, and aware of the bigger threat, all three killers spun to face him, though Kyo noted dimly that even so, they seemed aware of his every breath. It was hard to believe that they were mere mortals. "You didn't tell Takashi you were going out."

"I didn't," he replied agreeably, and he must have, if Tatsumi said so. "I forgot…I think. No shoes," he pointed out calmly.

"I can see that." Was that a smile, just the faintest, teasing the very corners of the secretary's lips? A little thrilled, Kyo made a note to tell his husband – the man's crush on Tatsumi was after all, a well known secret in the JuuOhCho. "Come, Kyo. Let's not bother these gentlemen any further." Icy blue eyes raked over the silent humans, discarding them aside as easily as they had dismissed the elemental mage in the first place. Kyo had to stifle a laugh – Fujimiya obviously didn't take well being treated so, as did Hidaka, and the young Shinigami docilely obeyed. There were always lines that shouldn't be crossed, and Tatsumi's was a very clear, bright, neon-glare which everyone in Meifu dutifully respected. Bar one of course. But then again, Tsuzuki got away with almost anything when it came to Tatsumi.

In the shop's doorway, he allowed Tatsumi to fuss over him, and was even more thrilled when the taller man took off his suit jacket, draping it over the younger shinigami's shoulders instead. Kyo held the fabric to his nose, inhaling deeply. Spices and lemon, and the hint of an aftershave and coffee. A secret smile played across his lips. Takashi would forget his anger at his mate soon enough, when the wayward mate had the kagetsuki's scent all over him.

Kyo had a feeling that they'd be doing their house-cleaning earlier this week, instead of the usual Sunday.

"Thank you for looking after my friend, gentlemen." Kyo barely heard the man's parting words to the assassins, lost in dreamy contemplation of his partner. His bare feet might have trodden other paths if a firm hand had not caught hold of his elbow, gently steering him back. When his shoeless feet was dewed with wet grass and bruised sakura petals instead of gravel and cement, he asked Tatsumi idly, not expecting an answer.

"Do we smell like blood, Tatsumi-san?"

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**A/N: **Re-working my parts of Monozuki, specifically, wherever Kyo appears. -winces- I got a little overboard in emphasizing his instability then, and it led us to nothing but trouble in trying to continue this story. Hopefully, I''m salvaging instead of destroying…

**Lavender: **Signifying distrust

**Taika: **The earliest, recorded reign of the emperor in Japanese calendar.  
**Heisei: **The current reigning emperor, Akihito, who ascended the throne in 1989.  
**Showa: **The era prior to Heisei  
**Genroku: **Started in 1688

For Japanese era goodness, all hail www . en . wikipedia . org / wiki / nengo (remove spaces)

Note: On the mention of the kitsune-ran ramen stall, that was a little tip of the hat to the mad xxxHolic by CLAMP.


	4. Monozuki 4: Yohji and Orchids

**Monozuki**** – **An Idle Curiosity

_A Weiss Kreuz/Yami no Matsuei crossover._

**Monozuki**** 4 – Yohji and Orchids**

**By Lisa**

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Way, hey… Check out the babe… Uh, huh, gotta love those skin tight leathers, and I mean tight. Any tighter, and you wouldn't need to take them off that sweet ass first. Pretty young bishounen like that shouldn't come to a place like this alone, somebody might get the wrong idea…

Like me.

No surprise that I hadn't noticed him come in; the club was that packed, all on a Saturday night. The air was pulsing with the fire-quick beat of the music's groove track, and the lights strobing along in red, blue, and blazing white made it seem solid, and alive. Half the people in the place were stripped down to naked chests and writhing hips, practically one gigantic organism intent on fucking itself into blissful oblivion. But this pretty bishounen was sticking close to the fringes of the crowd, loving the dancing, hating the packed floor, I would guess.

And my, could that boy _dance_.

He was still wearing a smoky, nearly transparent shirt – I was catching glimpses of dark nipples, and whoa, was that the glint of a ring in one? – with a high collar that fastened with minute silver buckles. It was just the sort of thing Aya liked to wear, and it always left me with visions of undoing each one, slowly, with just my teeth. The way that fabric clung to every sweet curve made it a perfect match for those lovely, fuckable leather pants, and just the right contrast for pale skin and equally dark hair clinging in messy, sweaty strands to his forehead and temples. I think I was in love. Or something.

Some random stranger matched his sinuous moves to my boy for a minute, until pretty shot him a regretful look, and gave a sharp, negative shake of his head. Hee, hee. Warned the poacher right off, he did. But it made me think that, maybe, watching wasn't going to be good enough, and I'd better make a move before he did find someone that he liked, before he disappeared off into one of the darkened alcoves, or up the stairs through the trailing streamers of cigarette and who-knew-what-else kind of smoke.

I was half-way across the packed distance before my brain had totally processed the fact that this was The One. Funny how it worked, but my instincts were seldom wrong, and they were screaming that this pretty boy had the power to take me round-trip to Nirvana and back.

Bishounen's eyes widened in surprise when I slid in front of him, picking up a counter beat that brought my hip into grazing contact with his for just a fleeting second. Fuck, it was like brushing up against a live wire, and judging by the way his pale eyes (blue? hard to tell in the changeable lighting) suddenly dilated, he felt every jolt and tremor of it, too. Damn, that look was pure sex on wheels, and the way he licked his lips uncertainly as he ran his eyes over me just signed and sealed my fate. All that was lacking was the delivery.

It seemed likely that what he saw in front of him was doing something for him, too, because he didn't warn me off the way he had his earlier suitor. Those hot, pale eyes lingered on my bare chest, visible through the swaying curtains of my open shirt, and a smile quirked up his full, pink lips.

Yeah, mama… come to papa.

There was no way to talk in the thumping, pulse-jumping club. I was tempted to try, just to get my lips up against the barely visible, delicate curve of his ear, to get a chance to nuzzle into that sweaty, luscious black silk hair, but I didn't want to risk scaring him off. Seeing the way he flinched and twitched, subconscious reactions when the beast that was the crowd got too close, I wanted to ask him to go someplace more private… like one of the smaller clubs where I had a members-only card, and where there were guest rooms upstairs with silk sheets. Fuck, the thought of laying him back on scarlet sheets, and opening that smoky shirt, one buckle at a time to get at the pale skin underneath and the glinting, silver ring, was making me crazy-hard. But first things first, Kudoh. Gotta walk before you can run.

As the driving beat changed its rhythm, picking up more of a Middle Eastern flavor, inspiration struck. I could work with this… Hmm, could I _ever_ work with it.

My arms came up, twining together into a complex, liquid move that was actually one of the warm-up exercises for playing out my wire, but never mind that. Pretty boy's eyes flickered, distracted by the glitter of gold rings on my fingers, and the iridescent shine of the midnight blue fabric of my shirt. Its long cuffs with the dozen tiny buttons fed into full sleeves that billowed and teased - oh, yeah, watch the show, bishounen, this is how it's gonna work – silk that brushed ever so lightly against his cheek, and the bare, exposed skin of the back of his hand. I put the same, serpentine, seductive roll into my shoulders, and let it flow on down to my hips, dragging his eyes with the movement so that he would notice the tight, dark blue leather of _my_ pants.

Those eyes widened, and darkened, even as the faint tint of color on his cheeks drained away. His hand was visibly shaking when it came up, and settled onto my hip, on the exposed curve of bone and muscle, just above the waistband. Then the other, trembling like a butterfly, arrived at my other side, and he was moving with me, matching me like my own reflection in a mirror, except that he was fucking _gorgeous._

I could have taken him, right there, on the cold concrete, and died a happy man.

But never let it be said that Kudoh Yohji didn't understand how to do this right. I could jump right to the main event, sure, but that would mean giving up all the appetizers, and that flickering, pale blue gaze promised one hell of a banquet.

The electricity of his long, slender fingers gripping my hips provided constant points of stimulation, feeding into the heat behind my navel, and trailing sparks of lust up my spine. So little contact, so much arousal. It almost hurt to slide the backs of my knuckles up the smooth skin of his jaw, headed for the delicious, beckoning hollow where jaw, throat and ear all came together. He turned his head, sensuously rubbing against me, and I swear my knees went weak. My other arm was curving down, letting me rest splayed fingers against the small of his back. I rubbed the ball of my thumb gently up and down the shallow groove of his spine, drawing forth a powerful shiver. Faltering, he lost the beat of the music, and I drew him up flush against my body, giving back the rhythm.

The timing couldn't have been better; the DJ having moved on to spinning something just as demanding, but slower and more sensuous. Our leathers clung, resisting, until our hips found that one, true place where pace and rhythm became merged. Against my bare skin the transparent smoke of his silk shirt shivered and warmed as each panting breath put us closer and closer to being in synch, to being one body, one heart beating fast and furious. I tilted my head and licked chilly salt sweat from the side of his overheated throat, feeling a moan that I couldn't begin to hear vibrate against my teeth.

Hmm… If I were really a florist, I'd give this one Schizantus orchids. Their bold colors: cream, mauve, red, and white; and the beautiful, open-faced flowers with their butterfly patterns that symbolized lust and ecstasy would be perfect.

I wanted to see _him_ open up like one of those flowers.

His hands hadn't moved, were still locked into place on my hips, and that was okay given the way my lovely boy's whole body was kissing me. There was good, hard muscle inside those tight pants; lean, long legs that promised stamina and agility. The erection that buzzed a teasing path across mine as we danced was far from childish, as were the rippling muscles of the flat abdomen above. The trembling shoulder my hand closed onto had the same understated, graceful hardness as Aya's; a swordsman's, not a weightlifter's.

Our next dance was going to be very, very good.

That willowy, pliable body was melting, leaning in closer. His slim torso rubbed against mine, the solid outline of his nipple ring digging the tiniest furrow across my willing skin, gliding beneath the slinky fabric of his shirt. My teeth ached to tug at that ring, to see if his response would be sharp – thrashing under me – or soft – a gasp and a slow writhing. There was a greater, firm mass between us, hot and hard as we slow danced together, and the teasing sparks were turning into a steady, blowtorch flame.

Long fingers wriggled in along the line of my jaw, lifting my chin from its nest in the young man's sleek black hair. I gave them a lazy nip, and curled my tongue around the tip of the longest, drawing it into my mouth suggestively. _Just think_, my tongue told it, sliding back and forth, _This__ could be happening somewhere else, somewhere tight, and hot…_ Soft breath on the outside of my neck brought my eyes fluttering open for an up-close view of beautiful, hazel eyes, long and narrow with lust of their own. My pretty boy leaned his face into my collar, letting the stranger that draped over his shoulder claim my mouth in what started as a light, teasing kiss at the outside corner and rapidly consumed me.

My hand, still splayed on the young thing's lower back, was trapped betwixt and between that smoky sleek shirt and another trim body. This one was wearing not only butter-soft leather pants, but an open, sleeveless vest with nothing under that let silky warm skin slide over my knuckles. The slim fingers clutching my hips convulsed, and then the kid was grinding, getting desperate against the two of us that held him prisoner. My trapped hand had no doubt that the newcomer was seriously turned on, because I could feel a hard length through the skin-thin leather, could almost have helped it out as it slid between the cheeks of boy's eager ass.

The hazel-eyed man turned my mouth loose with a lingering swipe of a clever tongue. He drew back just a hair, stroking his chin over the shivering boy's dark silk hair. Lips that glistened with my saliva shaped a word that I couldn't hear over the thunder of the music, but would have recognized anywhere:

_Mine._

Heh. Hard to argue that, and Kudoh Yohji wasn't the sort to force anyone into a good time if they weren't willing. But I had to check. I tilted back onto my heels, lifting the lovely bishounen's face, and saw the truth in the furious blush that stained his cheeks. Oh, yeah. This one was taken, all right… and about to _be_ taken in more ways than the one, if the insistent twitch against my hand meant anything. I rubbed my knuckles up and down, raising one of my own eyebrows in silent invitation, only to have the new guy shake his head, while a fond smile drew up a mouth that was every bit as gorgeous as my almost-lover's.

Ah well. You win some, you lose some. I reluctantly stepped back, feeling the chilly loss as those bruising fingers that had been locked on my hips fell away, as my groin was abandoned… The little bishounen squirmed around and buried his face and fists into a wonderfully enticing vest and pants set in bitter chocolate brown, worn by an equally pretty young man. That slim vision tightened its arms around my – his – boy, and grinned, showing a sliver of white teeth. In the flashing lights, his hair was blue, then violet, and finally revealed as auburn.

Auburn. Hmm. My own lips quirked up, and I tossed him a lazy salute.

Maybe it was time to call it a night, after all.

* * *

**to be continued**

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**Kelly: **Yeah, I _love _this chapter. Go Lisa! She succumbed to my endless pleas of "Lemon! Lemon! Want a lemon!"


	5. Monozuki 5: Hisoka and Monkshood

**Monozuki**** – **_An Idle Curiosity_

_A Weiss Kreuz/Yami no Matsuei crossover._

**Monozuki**** 5 – Hisoka and Monkshood**

**By Lisa**

* * *

Why in the Seven Hells do I let Tsuzuki talk me into things like this? There's only two of them home, he tells me, the older blond has gone clubbing, with Kyo as his tail. He won't be back for hours. Another is at an awards banquet for a bunch of soccer-playing kids. Kids he's coached to some junior inter-league win or other. Given the speeches and parents deep in vicarious victory dances, plus the fact that it's on the far side of the city, and it'll be late before we see him either.

Only two of them home, Tsuzuki. That's still two mortals who kill with a speed that would put a deranged Shinigami to shame. Two youths who do this for a _living_, which is horribly ironic considering what _we_ are.

Damned cake-loving, pie-munching sugar-fiend.

When we get out of this, I am _so_ hanging your ass out to dry.

I'll tell Tatsumi-san, for starters, that we're still here on Earth, wasting time and money, and mucking around in _his_ district no less. If there's one thing in Meifu that my lazy partner fears above all else, it's the Wrath of the Accountant. Then, when he's been reduced to a shivering wreck by one of the Shokan secretary's precisely aimed lectures, I'll kick him out of the bedroom, and lock the door. We'll see what a couple of nights whining on the too short couch does for his feckless attitude…

Stupid Hisoka.

I've been so busy plotting, that I didn't hear the door to the room I'm searching open, until now it's too late, and I'm caught, red-handed.

Startled, I jerk to a stop. It's a boy, the exact same size as me, slender and wiry. His eyes, however, are a dark blue, deep ocean waters, and his hair is a shade darker too, tawny lion and savanna colors. We blink at each other, too surprised to do a whole lot more, although I instinctively shift my weight, slipping into the balance necessary for kenjitsu, even though I haven't my sword. Comprehension flickers across that smooth, young face, and he moves, too. The difference is that a handful of shining needles appear between his fingers, and _shit_ now I remember that he knows how to use them, now I recognize him. The baby of the assassins. Omi. The kid who really is the age that I still appear to be.

My heartbeat leaps, and settles into a new, quicker rhythm, and a pulse of adrenaline shoots through my veins. If those thin slivers are poisoned, recovery would slow my reaction times, and I might not be able to escape without him being any the wiser as to my true nature.

Sometimes, being dead really sucks.

"Who are you?" The demand, spoken rapidly in an educated, Tokyo dialect, takes me by surprise. He's asking…? Not just stapling me to the wall at my back? Maybe there's a way out of this, after all.

"Hisoka." My own voice is pitched low in an effort to avoid being heard, but the other boy jerks back, snatching open the hallway door in that instant when I'm not ready for him to move, when I'm thinking 'dialogue,' not 'attack.'

"Aya-kun! Intruders!" he shouts, his voice echoing clearly down a corridor, and a stairwell, and throughout the building.

Aw, _shit_! Options… I could risk taking the needles and rush this slender assassin, or I can try for the unexpected. We're three floors up, and there's no fire escape outside the closed windows, no reason for him to anticipate my leap in that direction. So, I do, not giving him a moment's warning by thinking too long, by telegraphing the instinctive decision. Glass is shattering, falling in a glittering spray, even as the tangling embrace of draperies seeks to hold me back. Free air, a quick twist, and gone… slipping into invisible flight between one heartbeat and the next. Let's see that boy follow _this_ trick.

Needles shoot with alarming accuracy out the gaping hole, a nanosecond short of piercing a once-vulnerable back. Damn, that kid has fast reflexes for a mortal! He's in the window opening, crouched, feet braced on the twisted aluminum track, even as an outstretched hand steadies him, and tellingly, his gaze flickers rapidly to the dumpster full of floral debris below, and seeing nothing, proceeds upward, looking for ropes or other evidence… For me.

Finding me.

In a stuttering, frozen heartbeat, we're again locked into a face-off, green eyes and blue. Then the boy-assassin, Omi, recoils, and flailing wildly, falls backwards into the unseen spaces.

Shit… He _saw_ me.

* * *

**to be continued**

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**Monkshood:** Beware, danger is near. 


	6. Monozuki 6: Aya and Narcissus

**Monozuki**** – **_An Idle Curiosity_

_A Weiss Kreuz/Yami no Matsuei crossover._

**By Kelly**

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**Review replies:**

**RuByMoOn17: **Your wish is our command.

**The Invisible Fan: **Ah, it's the shortness of each chapter that makes this story easier to write. But here; more to please the palate.

**Meg the fierce lady: **And such enthusiasm in your praises! We both feel very happy with your kind words and your appreciated observation of the story. And as for myself, Kelly, I _love _an insane Kyo as well. He's so. . .fun, when he's like that. Fun, and disturbing, but fun nevertheless. In actual fact, **Monozuki **will explain how he pulls himself together to function well enough in **When Death Comes a'Knocking**.

Everyone else who reviewed yet we failed to acknowledge: my fault, entirely. I keep on forgetting to yet your words are very much treasured. Do keep those encouragement coming, no?

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**Monozuki**** 6 – Aya and Narcissus**

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Somebody was going to die.

That was it, plain and simple. Death was the only option for the one who was idiotic enough to replace the milk carton back in the fridge when there was barely a drop left inside.

Feeling the beginnings of a tension headache rising up from that point just beneath the base of his skull, Aya swore softly, crumpling the liter-carton between his hands and lobbing it into the trashcan. He should have known the day, (he checked the wall clock hanging above the fridge) no, make it early morning, wasn't going to get better. What was that saying. . .misfortune came in threes? Whatever. His day had been spoiled by the stranger with unnatural eyes, made even worse by the just-as-strange young man with black hair who appeared to be slightly insane, and now the gods had forbade him milk just when he couldn't sleep for fear of seeing those eyes again.

Aya resisted the urge to slam the fridge door closed and in the process wake up Omi and Ken who were undoubtedly sleeping the sleep of the just. All the same, the steel door was shut with a little more force than necessary. He needed to vent a bit, after all.

The ceramic tiles cold beneath his bare feet, Aya hitched the waist of his cotton sweatpants up absently. The pants were threadbare, worn and fuzzy from constant use and utterly sinful, that was how comfortable the grey pants were. In retrospect, he ought to be grateful that he didn't wake the others up. He hated the thought of his teammates seeing him so. . . .normal.

(Yes, the cold, aloof Abyssinian liked to sleep in nothing but pajama bottoms almost as old as he was and damn if he was going to let anyone else be aware of that fact.)

So what was he going to do now? The dim kitchen didn't offer him any answers as he scratched unconsciously at an old, raised scar just above his right bicep. Courtesy of Schuldich's .9mm, the asshole.

Milk was out of the question (_and it was going to be warm milk as well, dammit_), and so was sleep. Not when he was this pissed off.

His eyes fell on an innocuous kitchen appliance; the hot water dispenser. And ah, thank the thousand bodhisvattva of Buddhism, there was still plenty of water inside and judging by the glowing orange light on the lid, it was still hot.

Moving easily despite the lack of a proper light save the one over the stove, Aya hummed quietly to himself, gathering a chipped mug, a canister of his best tea leaves and on a whim, a plate of cookies. Oatmeal raisin.

The steady stream of hot water splashing into his mug was the only other sound to break the stillness of two a.m., that, and his occasional humming. Aya paused. He had been humming the Pink Panther's theme song without being aware of it. The redhead assassin winced; great, just what he needed – more reminders of how absolutely bizarre, how freakingly _Alice _his day had been.

"Well, aren't we the lucky ones, Yohji my dear."

Aya's hand jerked, involuntary reflex and he bit back a colorful curse as some of the hot water splashed his hand. Setting his now full mug down on the counter with a controlled thump, Aya stalked to the sink and turned on the cold water faucet, thrusting his hand beneath the spray and letting the coolness soothe away the red marks.

There was a low chuckle behind him, throaty and with that gravelly undertone. Yohji would never give up smoking, no matter how many times he was presented with gruesome images of diseased lungs and brains, courtesy of their resident hacker, Omi.

"What do you want, Kudoh?" Aya snapped, not bothering to turn around.

"Is that any way to greet someone who's suffering from a broken heart?"

_Fuck. _Where the hell had his self-control disappeared to? He had let the colorful curse out without being aware of it but most grating of all was that he didn't even realize the infuriating blond had actually sidled from behind, placing strong hands against the edge of the sink on either side of him, effectively trapping the enraged redhead in between.

Ignoring the still running faucet, Aya let instinct take over. His own hands, dripping wet, shot out on either side, palms out and smacking the confining arms away from him. Only, the intended targets weren't there. Aya had overestimated the force he put behind the move, failing to correct himself in time as his palms met empty air. Effectively helpless as the elusive hands settled on his waist lightl and using physics and gravity which decided to favor Balinese today, he was spun around, only to be pressed back against the sink by a hard and very trim body encased in leather and silk, cigarette smoke and the bitter smell of alcohol.

Blond hair escaping the confines of a tie brushed his cheek softly, tenderly, almost lover-like as Yohji leaned in, and it took the shocked, surprised and very much furious Aya a good minute to realize that Yohji was nuzzling him.

Nuzzling—!

Him!

"Ah, such pretty hair, dear _Aya_-kun. . ."

He was truly down the rabbit hole and drinking tea with the Mad Hatter. He just had to be. Why else would that little lilt to his name could freeze his ready scream of "Shi ne!" in his throat, for a very un-Abyssinian blush to color his cheeks?

Just recalling his code name and the dignity that was supposed to come with it snapped him back to his senses. With a hiss, Aya shoved the willing body away and could take little pleasure from his action, not when the blond ex-P.I. didn't even stumble so much as dance back out of his reach.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Kudoh?" he snarled, crossing his arms over his chest, inadequate cover for the bare skin. The sneer he kept well oiled came easily as he shoved the memory of a warm body against his into a dark, very dark corner of his mind. "Rejected, were you?"

A pout made disgustingly pink lips fuller. The man will never give up his nicotine habit if kami-sama failed to even curse the idiot with the normal signs of smoking. Instead, the constant scent of cigarette only added to the man's complex layer, became as much as his identity as those deceiving sunglasses.

"So perceptive, _Aya_-kun."

There goes that added twist to his name again. He was about to inform Yohji just _where _he could stuff his lecherous libido when the taller man suddenly started dancing.

Aya resisted the urge to rub his eyes.

Yes, Yohji, Balinese, call him what you will, was dancing. Long, very long legs encased in dark blue leather that was practically a second skin did a slow, sensual glide across the kitchen floor, coming tantalizingly close to the wary Abyssinian but the only touch that came was the kiss of air, scented by a musky smell that was all Kudoh Yohji. Full sleeves billowed in the passage, forming patterns that Aya recognized as his wire-moves. Unbidden, his lips quirked in a small smile – trust the blond to use a skill like that to entice and lure.

Wait. . .his violet eyes narrowed. Entice. . .? Realization was just as effective as cold water. Aya straightened, hands at his sides, fists clenched. Just what the hell was wrong with the world today?! First there were those weird people coming into the store and tripping his finely tuned sense of danger, then his sleep was far from restful, someone (who was still going to die painfully) had finished all the milk, and now _Yohji _was coming on to him?!

But his partner and fellow assassin was speaking again, before he could unleash his frustrations on the unwitting target.

Still swaying to an unheard tune, Yohji had his arms wrapped around an invisible partner, eyes smoky with some fathomless emotion and pinning him with those half-lidded gaze. The tip of a tongue appeared, wetting lips before forming words he had to force himself to concentrate on.

"He was such a pretty boy, Aya-kun. . .my very own bishounen." A sigh, a fuller pout, and Yohji twirled his invisible partner around before coming to a stop before the wary assassin, fingers tracing a melody in the air.

"He was so beautiful. . the way he moved, the way he lost himself in the music, and later on, losing himself in my arms. . ." Those dangerously smoldering eyes refused to break their hold on him and Aya felt a shiver (of. . .anticipation?) run down his spine. "I was positive I was going to heaven tonight, Aya. Lose myself in the feel of warm skin, hear him gasp and writhe underneath me, feel him. . ." Lips grazed his ear and he trembled, throat swallowing convulsively.

"Make him scream with ecstasy as I take him, in my mouth. . .from behind. . make him beg for more. . ."

It was the song of a flute. The words curled around his ears, licked the pale shell of a curve tantalizingly, drifted lower to stroke his groin with delicate touches till the grey cotton pants were made a mockery.

"But my bishounen, my pretty boy, was already taken. . what to do, _Aya_-kun? What to do when I lost him to such an equally beautiful man? What to do when I want to fuck them both silly and couldn't?"

Was it fate? Destiny playing its hand perhaps and saving him from a precipice he dare not look over the edge for fear of vertigo and losing his balance? Whatever it was, something broke the redhead assassin from the hypnotic lulling of words and barely-there caresses that made his body yearn for something more substantial. With a gasp, and a wordless snarl, Aya shoved the blond away with enough force to make the man stumble, and apparently, shocking the former P.I. out of whatever sick fantasy he was in.

"Aya. . .?"

"Fuck off, Kudoh," he snapped and stalked out of the kitchen, forgetting his snack of tea and cookies. "Just fuck off!"

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**Narcissus: **Infatuation with one's self

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**Kelly: **Reviews are a soothing balm to this poor and weary soul. . .Lisa's too -grin-


	7. Monozuki 7: Omi and Xeranthemum

**Monozuki**** – **_An Idle Curiosity_

_A Weiss Kreuz/Yami no Matsuei crossover._

**By Lisa**

**Monozuki**** 7 – Omi and Xeranthemum **

**

* * *

**_He was flying, I swear!_

They hadn't believed him.

Groaning, Omi massaged the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb, digging viciously until the external pressure outweighed the internal pain. His own teammates hadn't been willing to accept what he had seen.

Of course, it didn't help that he didn't believe his own eyes, either.

That blue darkness was more than a little bloodshot from being up all night when he finally opened them to the gray, pre-dawn light. The breeze from the gaping hole that _had_ been a third floor window greeted him, chilling the sweat that beaded his temples, making his own skin feel fever-hot in comparison. The smallest Weiss bit back a word that would have shocked his partners had he allowed it to escape, and slumped to the floor, his forehead coming to rest against the ruined window frame as his jeans-clad knees crunched on stray bits of shattered glass.

In his mind's eye, he saw the other boy, fair and lovely, flinging himself at the window, heard that astonishing noise as glass fragmented under the impact… _didn't_ hear the awful thud of flesh and bone meeting concrete… His darts were shooting in a perfect, flat arc, pursuing, striking the far wall of the alley to fall in a faint, tinkling, chiming to the distant ground.

Omi supposed he'd better go retrieve the lethal bits of steel before some idiot committed accidental suicide by pricking himself on their poisoned points.

_Hisoka… He said his name was 'Hisoka.'_

Hisoka. That was usually a feminine name. Yet those narrow hips and that flat chest had belonged to a boy, Omi was sure of that. It struck him, briefly, that it was funny that the intruder who had so effortlessly by-passed the Koneko's alarms was likewise stuck with a girl's name, just like Aya-kun. It also occurred to him that the closed, watchful face had belonged to someone his own age; to a high school student. So… armed with those facts - age, gender, and first name – how long would it take to search the records of every school in Tokyo?

Omi's forehead thumped lightly against the window frame. Days… it would take days. And that was assuming that there was much of anything to be found, assuming that the other boy even attended school in the city. And then the other blond could still be at a school like Omi's, chosen for precisely the reason that they _didn't_ put up much information where it could be accessed by a hacker, like him.

Kuso.

Well, he'd run the search, not that he planned to hold his breath until – if – it yielded some results. Fleetingly, it crossed Omi's mind to wonder why Aya, always so pale, had literally gone the color of his sheets when the younger Hunter had described the intruder. That was… interesting.

Was it possible that the redhead knew him? It didn't seem likely. Yet… Aya _had_ reacted weirdly when Hisoka's companion had been in the shop. That tall man with his rumpled, yakuza-styled clothing, had tripped every alarm in the swordsman's admittedly very paranoid body. At the time, Omi had been more concerned with the impression that the older assassin was making on what they had to assume was an innocent customer, but now the smaller blond was starting to wonder.

The Koneko had two security systems in place. The first was open and obvious, and exactly what a shop of that size and degree of prosperity should have. The other, wired personally by Omi himself, was silent and invisible - and far, far superior. Neither had given so much as a peep. If it hadn't been for chance, for maybe a sliver of light soaking from around his door registering on some subliminal level, he might never have known that their home had been invaded. Omi might have walked right on past the door to his little efficiency apartment and gone on down to their communal living room and been none the wiser that that strange boy had been going through his stuff.

His hand tightened convulsively on the window's sill at that thought. His personal belongings were even more meager than his memories of the past, and the young assassin had found that it bugged him to no end to think of either being tampered with. But the real question was: what had the beautiful invader been looking for?

He had absolutely no clue.

Omi dragged himself wearily to his feet. Thinking about it was getting him nowhere, and as the day's light increased, so did the risk of some early passer-by rummaging in the alley and finding his darts. He'd better go collect them, or he'd have a lot of explaining to do to Manx; his empty stomach clenched at the mere thought of _that_ conversation...  
_Oh, hi... Manx-san, you know that nice old man, Masatori-san, who always picks up the trash in the alley? Could you send out a clean-up team? I accidentally poisoned him with some darts I left lying around..._No, talking to her was definitely not high on his to-do list.

Fortunately, the four slivers of steel were pretty much where he had guessed they would be, and Omi was able to breathe a sigh of relief as he slipped them into the compartmented leather sheath that lay flat against his belly. His step was considerably lighter as he bounced back into the shared kitchen across the hall from the shop's storeroom, enough so that he actually felt like making breakfast for everyone. Homemade pancakes would be enough to even get Yohji out of bed, although the man might turn around and collapse again afterwards, depending on when he had finally gotten to sleep. Sunday was the worst day to expect the wire man to be up and moving any time before mid-afternoon, assuming he even got up at all.

The big mixing bowl wasn't where it was supposed to be. Scowling, Omi contemplated the closed cabinet doors, trying to invoke x-ray vision to see where the stupid thing had ended up this time. The playboy was going to be the one praying to Kannon for mercy if the bowl had gotten 'borrowed' for some kinky stuff again. The last time (having something to do with vodka-spiked Jello and Yohji's latest conquest's panties), had even had Ken guffawing and practically rolling on the floor over the way Omi had developed a nervous twitch. He blushed at the memory.

Thankfully, he found the bowl crammed into the bottom cupboard, behind a roaster that they never used. The petit blond resolutely refused to think about how it had gotten there, settling instead for giving it an extra-thorough washing before measuring out the ingredients.

The aroma that filled the kitchen made his stomach change its tune from stressed out to ravenous, gurgling with a different kind of desperation. Omi juggled the first pancake out of the skillet between his hands, blowing on it frantically until he was able to roll it and take a huge bite. A blissful smile crossed his features.

"Good, isn't it?" The quiet baritone was mild and pleasant, and for the barest second, the young blond relaxed, nodding agreeably. Then reality set in and he spun about, backing across the room as his hand dipped toward the needles hidden at his waist. A broader, more muscular hand than his closed around his wrist, dragging his arm straight up to its fullest extension, and then Omi was pinned against the wall.

Violet eyes, a shade darker than Aya's, smiled down at him. "Demo, I wouldn't do that, if I were you."

Omi's mouth opened as if he were about to protest the manhandling, but instead his slipper-clad foot lashed out, nailing the stranger in the shin, even as he turned his thin wrist sideways and popped it free of the other's grip. An incoherent scream of mingled fury and alarm tore from the boy's throat. He ducked, rolling his narrow shoulders, and shot beneath the imprisoning arm in its black trench coat.

He had almost made it to freedom out the kitchen door when the intruder shouted "Sou! Ka! Rei- " and the boy slammed into a solid wall of air. Stunned, he staggered back, and would have fallen, except that a strong pair of arms caught him, and that kind voice murmured, "Ah, gomen, gomen…"

Blink. Staring at the fuzzy brightness of the kitchen's ceiling light fixture was making his eyes water, so Omi let his head flop to the side and considered the anxious face that was only a few inches away. It was a very pretty face, he decided fuzzily: those astonishing purple eyes, with glossy strands of chestnut hair falling down to half conceal them; a straight nose above a wide, generous mouth that looked as if it were just made to enjoy jokes and sweets; and a surprisingly firm chin.

Better than pretty, it was _handsome_.

Befuddled, Omi blinked again and wondered where that thought had come from.

The owner of the handsome face was squatting next to the kitchen chair that Omi was sprawled rather gracelessly across, and was still wearing the yakuza-style black coat. The only explanation for his presence was that it was a hallucination. Shakily, the teenager raised his hand and poked the apparition in the forehead just as it was about to contritely say 'sorry' one more time.

His finger encountered solid flesh and warm skin. The litany of apologies stopped.

"Um… excuse me?" the baritone voice asked cautiously.

"You're real." Omi replied, feeling stupid and a bit lost.

"Well… yes." the man admitted. He rubbed sheepishly at the back of his neck. "Demo… I guess this didn't work out the way I planned it. You see, 'Soka-chan was worried about how you were taking seeing him, in here, so I thought I would swing by and check up on you. But the pancakes smelled _so_ good that I couldn't resist coming in…" He paused, eyeing Omi's bewildered expression. "I guess this isn't helping, is it?"

Omi coughed lightly, and agreed. "No, it isn't." But it wasn't entirely the odd man's fault; the young Hunter figured that he had to be contributing a good hunk of the confusion, himself. " 'Soka-chan'… Hisoka?" he ventured.

"Aa. He's my partner. And I'm Tsuzuki. And you must be Omi-kun." The man's smile turned into a cheerful grin. He pulled another chair out from the table and dropped into it, long legs stretched carelessly out in front of him. The Hunter took in the scuffed shoes and wrinkled suit revealed by the pose, and shook his head, muttering to himself.

"Oh. I was starting to think my name was 'Alice.' " A delighted laugh greeted the comment.

Unbelievable. Omi shook his head again, harder, to try to dislodge the more surreal aspects of the conversation. This Tsuzuki, like his otherworldly partner, had somehow by-passed the building's security, and had apparently done it all because the pancakes smelled good.

Pancakes?

Oh, no. The pancakes! He had forgotten all about them. They were probably ready to go up in flames. With a startled squawk, Omi spun about in his seat and tried to wobble to his feet. The strong hands caught him again, pulling him back down.

"Whoa! It's okay. I turned off the stove." Tsuzuki told him hastily. Omi's wide eyes tracked up the rumpled sleeves to the openly concerned features. The mercurial grin became aggrieved as he added, "I don't see what 'Soka has against me cooking. I'm not _that_ bad at it." The inherent humor failed to reach the sorrow trapped in the gentle violet eyes.

"_Who_ are you?" the boy whispered. "How did you get in here?"

"Ah…" The sheepish look was back in full force as he scratched at his neck and brushed some of the fly-away strands of hair back from his face. "It's kind of hard to explain…"

"Try me." Omi snapped.

"Um… This all started a couple of weeks ago. We were looking into some unexplained deaths, thinking they might be related to a man we're chasing. The trail led us here, to Tokyo." He waved his hand about vaguely, taking in both the shop and Omi's sleeping partners on the floors above. "You're out of our jurisdiction, so normally we would just have dropped an anonymous tip with the police, but… I was curious."

For a brief moment, the world seemed to freeze in its orbit. Weiss had been tracked? To the Koneko? Shimatta… Their cover was blown. Omi's thoughts raced ahead. An 'anonymous tip' implied that this Tsuzuki and his diminutive companion were not a part of the normal law enforcement community. Yet, the choice of words, of 'jurisdiction,' implied some kind of formal organizational structure. And that was bad, because it meant that simply eliminating the tall man sitting in their kitchen would not put a stop to things. The odds were high that there existed, somewhere, a report that would reveal everything. The question was just how much 'everything' did Tsuzuki and Hisoka know? He licked suddenly dry lips, asking cautiously, "Curious about what?"

"What could drive a young human like you, or like your friends, to kill."

* * *

**Xeranthemum** - Cheerfulness under adversity 

(www . garysgarden . com / GaryXeranthemum . htm)

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**Kelly: **Y'know . . .reviews would be nice. . . 


	8. Monozuki 8: Takashi, Kyo and Stephanotis

**Monozuki – **An Idle Curiosity

_A Weiss Kreuz/Yami no Matsuei crossover._

**By Kelly**

**Monozuki 8 – Takashi, Kyo and Stephanotis (RE-WORKED)**

**Warning: **Gratuitous sex. A little plotting. But mainly sex. You've been warned.

* * *

Kyo slept like the dead.

Limbs arranged just so, his boy would lie in whatever pose sleep had claimed him in, though the trim body would usually be attached to his side or in the infrequent occurrence that Takashi had to wake before him, curled up into a protective little ball, safe from the world. Kyo would barely move throughout the night, making concessions only for Takashi's own, more restless sleeping. But today, with the sun a dim reminder behind closed drapes, with just the faintest hint of cherry blossoms in the air, Kyo slept on his front, arms tucked underneath his pillow, the sheet only covering up to the small hollow of his back with the bed a blank canvas for his naked body.

Propped on one elbow, a small smile curving his lips, Takashi indulged in a habit he seldom had the chance to; enjoying the sight of his love unhindered by work, people or lust overriding his senses.

There was a certain joy, quiet and unassuming, in being able to just watch. Watch, and drink in that pale skin that could never tan, no matter how many hours Kyo spent on the football field when he was mortal and more so now, in the frozen existence of a Shinigami. That very same, creamy soft skin clothed a body forever encased in youth – slender and supple with wiry muscles, muscles that would never blossom into bulk, even if Kyo had the build for it. No, his Kyo was all long, clean and spare lines. A beauty that was almost feminine but utterly male.

His free hand coasted gently over Kyo's bared back, his palm and fingertips keeping just the lightest contact, following the contours of smooth deltoids, unashamedly delighting in that sweet, long, hollow of the boy's – no, a man now, but still _his_ boy and yes, he was quite aware that he was too possessive of his mate, thank you - spine. Even now, years after he left his chosen vocation when he was alive and a human, he had no trouble naming the parts of the body his hand unashamedly roamed. This, this sweet, sweet curve was the thoracic, the resulting dip the lumbar. He named each under his breath, chuckling quietly when the boy he studied so assiduously grumbled in his sleep, burrowing his head under the pillow. Frankly, the other parts of Matsumada Takashi-sensei didn't give a damn about labeling the human anatomy. The other parts of Takashi-sensei were more concerned with facts like how Kyo would squirm most enjoyably should he run his tongue down the curve of his boy's spine, how his boy would beg for _more, _to _don't stop _when he would wickedly pause to lap and swirl languorous circles in that small dip just before the buttocks. And oh, how he _loved _sheathing his hard, throbbing, dripping wet cock into his boy, pushing past the tight ring of muscles, demanding the body beneath him to reciprocate and to submit.

Takashi murmured a soft admonishment; directed to himself. His own body had responded well to his lazily drifting thoughts, was making its demand known, the penis nested in darker, auburn curls stiffening, rising eagerly.

Then again…why not? It was a Sunday after all, and even Tatsumi had relented and called off the weekend search for Muraki that the secretary had originally proposed. After the hectic weeks they had, chasing down those so-called White hunters from one _cho_ to another, they really deserved the break. And what better reward, Takashi thought piously, then having some delectable Kyo-sized snack for breakfast?

So armed with reason and logic, the redhead wasted no time. The blankets were pulled away with a flourish, puddling on the floor in a discarded heap. The loss of what little warmth the minimal cover had given woke Kyo up, a faint murmur of protest as his tousled head emerged from the under the pillow.

"Wha-?"

"Good morning, my love," Takashi murmured, sliding his equally bare body on top, the delight at finding how well their bodies fitted together never failing to send a shiver through him. His appreciation was obvious, his cock swelling almost painfully, sliding between the cleft of Kyo's buttocks eagerly, little dribbles of pre-cum an inadequate lubricant. Kyo's reaction was instantaneous; goosebumps prickled his skin in a visible wave, a decadent moan slipping free before the boy's mind fully woke up. A hiss escaped the former sensei, hips rocking harder, and he pushed the boy further into the mattress. An arm supported most of his weight, while the other brushed tangled, silky locks out of the way, and their kiss was made awkward by their position, Kyo's half-awake state leaving him with little of the skill he possessed when fully aware. Not that Takashi minded it much, when Kyo made those delightful sounds; a breathy gasp, a whimper dying in his throat, his name said with a voice that could and _was_ curling his toes and almost strangling him with the urge to fuck the boy right there and then.

"Takashi…" Damn, he lost his chance to make love to his _koi_ half asleep. Eyes a _gaijin_'s blue glared at him beneath messy bangs, Kyo tilting his head back and to the side uncomfortably, what with his husband and lover pinning him down so. "I was trying to sleep," his partner grumbled, and tried to bump the older man off. It only succeeded in locking their hips together even more securely, the redhead's pleased laugh a deep baritone that sent the blood straight to the younger man's penis – a fact that Takashi was well aware of since he had a hand wrapped securely around it. "Taka-!"

Teeth closed sharply on a smooth shoulder, biting deep, distracting his _koibito_ together with the hand that started stroking the boy's shaft and eliciting a long, drawn out groan that ended in a whine as he carefully guided his dripping penis inside. They had had years together; years to learn and memorise and remember what the other liked and didn't, and could afford to take and could not, and Takashi handled Kyo with all the skills of a familiar lover. He pushed when the darker-haired boy gave that pleased little gasp, desisted when the breath hitched and knuckles turned a shade too white and he allowed for the body beneath him to get used to the invasion, to relax and accept. When he was inside, so deep inside and his _koi_, so tight and hot around him, Takashi eased his punishing grip, his strokes a hair more languid, allowing Kyo to catch his breath.

"I love you," he murmured, nosing aside the now-sweat dampened hair, setting his teeth delicately into soft skin. He suckled hard, lapping up the beads of blood he drew when the skin broke, chuckling when his lover cursed him in four languages, including the little Makai Kyo knew.

"You…fucked me four times…already last night," Kyo complained, though he didn't exactly made too much of an effort to dislodge his amorous husband. If anything, he cooperated, spreading his legs open a little wider, muscles clenching rhythmically as their bodies moved together in a familiar dance. "Give a guy some rest, sensei."

Laughing, Takashi drew himself up on his knees, lightly spanking the buttocks that rose eagerly into the air with him, so obviously trying not to lose the invader. Not that he gave his _koi_ much choice with his fingers digging in so into Kyo's hips, bodies flushed close together. "Do you really want me to stop, Kyo?" he asked breathlessly, and pushed in so deep and hard that the boy almost struck his head against the headboard, a shout escaping as the bed rocked, hitting the wall.

"Ahh…" Trembling arms supported his weight, as Kyo pushed himself up, panting for breath. He threw his head back, a wild cry that almost drowned out the steady thumping of the headboard against the wall as Takashi picked up the slack. "Gods, no! Yes, r-right…Taka…" Both ignored the furious knocking on the other side of the wall, a neighbour's muffled shouts mere background noise. "Ah! Harder!"

Magic played across their joined bodies as he submitted to his husband's demands, the slap of flesh on flesh a counterpoint against the crackle and snap of powers released from restraints, lifting the ends of their hair, burrowing back deep into sweat-soaked skin. Takashi had no idea who started it, nor did he care. Kyo's magic was as much a part of the older man as was his own, as intimately known as the body he was pounding into so desperately. The rush of power was sweetly addictive, filling his body inside out, spilling out with every sweatdrop, every dribble of cum that slicked Kyo's passage, smoothening the way for him, and it was in every drop of hot liquid that splashed the hand he used to stroke Kyo, him ruthlessly pulling even as he pushed in so hard, Kyo fell back to the bed, shouting mindlessly.

There was a moment of bliss, of pure, raw _need_ that exploded out of every pore and his vision greyed in so clichéd a manner, that a short laugh burst out, even as his seed flooded Kyo's insides. He pushed, again, grunting in satisfaction when he felt the warm liquid ooze out to trickle down the insides of Kyo's thighs. The boy beneath him gave a last, choked cry, and Kyo came all over his hand, hips rocking urgently as Kyo succumbed to his own orgasm, a slave to his body and magic.

* * *

Long after their neighbour gave up, and the mess on the sheets had cooled and Takashi's cock had wilted inside of Kyo, the sparks of magic still played, dancing on and on. Kyo watched them lazily through half-lidded eyes, contented and satisfied as a cat after a bowl of cream and warm sunshine. Fucked senseless, it was hard to convince himself to move let alone clean up when it felt good enough to just lie on his side, spooned against his husband, Takashi still buried inside. Far better, Kyo thought dreamily, to do _this_ instead.

An agile tongue lapped the drying cum coating Takashi's hand and Kyo knew his partner was pleased by the way he shifted, pushing a little against him, even more so when he started to suck those long, surgeon's fingers clean.

"Kyo…" Pinpricks of pain blossomed on the side of his neck, right over his jugular, and Kyo fancied he could hear his heartbeat drumming loudly in his ears. The returning bite of the former doctor's fingers he gave was accidental – uncontrolled, undirected magic curled playful tendrils around his body and he could have _sworn_ it actually tweaked his nipples.

"So—" The grin in Takashi's voice was all too obvious, but before suspicion could bloom, he was distracted by the redhead's question. "—Still feel like jumping that blond assassin?"

He released Takashi's fingers with a wet pop, absently hooking a leg over Takashi's hip, allowing the man better access. "Are you jealous?" he accused disbelievingly. The crows' feet at the corner of Takashi's eyes deepened, his amusement rumbling between their bodies and Kyo shifted uncomfortably at the reaction it caused.

"Why shouldn't I be?" Takashi purred, and stole a kiss from his _koibito_, tongues dueling briefly before the older man relented, nuzzling Kyo affectionately. "I was watching the whole thing after all. You were dancing, turning everyone away but when _he_ came…Ah, _koi_, you both looked so…good together."

He couldn't answer, not when Takashi was pinching and twisting first one nipple, then the other, until both were sore and red.

"You were the one who…" Kyo had to take a deep breath then, letting it out in a low groan, "—who suggested we roleplay last night, pretend we don't know each other. I can't help it if you were too slow—ow!"

"Brat," was Takashi's affectionate reply. "I should spank you for that."

"You did. Many times."

"True," his husband conceded. "I can always spank you more though."

For a long while, there were no sounds save the rustle of sheets and a quiet laugh, and when the pace slowed down a little, Kyo was content to draw aimless circles on the bedsheets, idly trying to capture an errant spark now and then. "Did you know he was going to be there last night?" he asked sleepily.

"Hmm?" Kyo made a sound of protest when Takashi stopped suckling his shoulder, but desisted when the older man wryly pointed out that it was hard to do that _and_ answer his question. "No, I didn't," Takashi said easily. "A pleasant surprise though. He looks better in real life and leather, than what the surveillance photos showed. And he looked really…really good when he wanted you so badly, _koibito_."

A bright flash of light dazzled Kyo momentarily – the lazily drifting sparks of magic coalesced, and to Kyo's surprise, followed the path his husband had taken, tickling between his legs and shooting straight inside to hit the same spot Takashi had long marked as _the_ spot to make Kyo squirm and beg ever so nicely.

"Fuck--!" he gasped, his body curving in a tight bow and Takashi, spooned against his back laughed quietly, tightening his hold on the quivering boy. "That…oh _gods_…Taka, what…what are you _doing?_" Any coherency that was returning fled away again as desire flooded his insides, scattering away all thoughts that had nothing to do with his husband, or that small spark of magic inside of him, caressing him intimately, even as his husband's penis started to swell. The double sensation drowned him under heavy languor, little mewls escaping his mouth. He tried to reach down to hold himself, but the former sensei had other ideas. An invisible force took hold of his hands, and bemused, Kyo could only watch as they lay docilely on the mattress before him, twitching sporadically.

"Do you like that?" Takashi breathed in his ear, and Kyo's only answer was a stifled, "Ng!" as his body jerked again, that sweet spot attacked mercilessly by magic and cock.

"Taka…" His voice was hoarse, from thirst and desire, and the effect it had on his husband was felt immediately; Kyo forgot what it was he wanted to say when Takashi grunted, and started to rock against him, the older man's pace fast and ungentle. It wasn't long before Takashi grew dissatisfied with the awkward position – Kyo whined in protest when his husband withdrew, but his own displeasure was short-lived as he was easily flipped on to his back, the older man looming over him, a fierce, hungry smile curving his lips. His own was crushed in a bruising kiss, the very breath stolen from him as Takashi plundered his mouth again and again, his hands shackled helplessly above his head by Takashi's and he couldn't do nothing more than to react, body arching off the bed when the older man penetrated him in one, swift move.

The pace the older man set ensured that things ended very quickly, a fact that had Kyo grumbling when he was coherent again, since he was the one who, as Takashi smugly pointed out, lost _much_ earlier than the former sensei did.

"You cheated," he accused half-heartedly, only slightly mollified by the kiss Takashi gave.

"Hey, sweetheart…"

"What?"

Takashi propped himself up on an elbow, a quizzical look on his face. "We never went to that club before last night. Who told you about it?"

"Huh?" Kyo looked up, the towel he was wrapping around his waist hanging forgotten in his hand. "Tsuzuki did."

The redhead frowned and rolled off the bed, muttering a curse when he smeared some of their mess on his legs. "Tsuzuki doesn't go clubbing," he pointed out, ignoring Kyo's mewl of disgust when he used the soiled sheets.

"I don't exactly keep tabs on his hobbies," he pointed out dryly. "All he said was that he heard it was a new club that had good music, and that we might like the people there…"

Husband and husband stared at each other for a long moment, before realization dawned on them both, and they chorused, "Shit."

Naturally, it was then that the doorbell rang, and the few shadows in the room rose like a threatening wave on the walls, its manipulator's ire clearly felt by both Shinigami.

"Aw, crap," Kyo summed up eloquently. "Tatsumi's going to kill us."

* * *

**A/N: **Big change from the original chapter...


	9. Monozuki 9: Ken and Hyssop

**Monozuki**** – **_An Idle Curiosity_

_A Weiss Kreuz/Yami no Matsuei crossover._

**By Lisa**

**Monozuki**** 9 – Ken and Hyssop**

**

* * *

_Shit. These days, everything just comes out wrong._ Ken moodily kicked at the enormous planter outside the mall entrance and tried not to let his temper get the better of him. It wasn't as if Omi was late on purpose. Shit happened.**

Unfortunately, in this case, it was making _Ken_ late for work, and he so did _not_ want to try to explain it to Aya, whom he was due to relieve in less than an hour, from clear across the city. For some reason, the thought of making excuses to the darkly hostile swordsman scared the younger man.

Officially, he and Omi were at the mall the way they were every Monday and Thursday morning: to deliver fresh floral arrangements to several up-scale boutiques, and to a couple of businesses in the office tower that anchored one end of the mall complex. They and the Koneko's little delivery van were such familiar sights that the mall's private security ignored the vehicle parked in the loading zone next to the dock with its flashers going. But that would only buy them so much time. The unofficial reason for the visit, and most likely the reason that Omi was late, was that today they were doing recon on a brokerage house with its offices on the seventeenth floor. Omi was supposed to have stopped up with a lavish display addressed to the corporation's vice president from a fictitious client, and things couldn't be going well if he wasn't back yet.

Ought he to go check? Or should he stick to the agreed upon plan, and just wait? According to his watch, the kid was already ten minutes late, although it felt more like an eternity. Conflicted, Ken gnawed on the side of one knuckle, and kicked the big planter again. God, he _hated_ waiting. Omi had better have plans about making it up to him.

The worst part, of course, was that if anything went wrong, the soccer player was doomed to stay in the dark about it. They weren't wearing communications rigs for fear of being spotted, and it wasn't until well after Omi had left that Ken had found the blond boy's cell phone on the floor of the van, presumably dropped out of a pocket of his baggy tan cargo pants. The cell phone was now clutched in Ken's hand, concealed deep in one of his own pockets.

It didn't help that the layout of the mall itself made for lousy lines of sight. He was stuck waiting for the smaller boy at the entrance nearest to the dock, caught in an angle between the looming office tower itself, and a five-level parking garage. The rumble of vehicles, and the squealing of tires on the tight spiral of the exit ramp set Ken's nerves on edge, and he ground his teeth together in frustration. He had already tried playing 'red car/white car' and so far, red was in the lead by three. He had speculated on the profession of each person going through the revolving doors of the office tower proper, just a little farther down the sidewalk than his station by the mall entrance, but that was even worse than counting cars because it seemed as if every one had to be a stock broker. That sad delusion reminded him of where Omi was, and made Ken's stomach clench even tighter with worry.

Swearing under his breath, the brunet checked his watch – again – and cursed that less than two minutes had passed since the last time he had looked. At this rate, he was going to be gray-haired and hobbling with a cane before his teammate got his butt back downstairs.

But it wasn't as if he had any other choices. The last bucket of carnations in the back of the van had already been used to buy a few extra minutes, allowing him to wave cheerily to the guards and bustle back inside the mall, apparently still hard at work. There was nothing else left, no arrangements that he could use as a prop to let him venture to the upper levels of the office tower in search of his wayward partner, and so the impatient athlete was just going to have to tough it out, and wait.

As missions went, this one sucked big time.

Hands flexing, as if working his absent bugnuks, Ken suppressed an urge to start pacing, and settled for rhythmically kicking at the big concrete planter, scuffing the toes of his sneakers. It made a lousy substitute for a soccer ball, but under the circumstances, it was about all he could think to do as he kept a surreptitious and increasingly concerned eye out for his best friend.

Part of the problem was that as lunch time drew nearer, the crowd was thickening. Pretty soon, the ex-ball player wouldn't be able to see someone Omi's height at all, given that he wasn't all that much taller, himself. There were moments where Ken envied the older Weiss, and this was one of them. And ditto for the broad-shouldered apparition in white that cut through the milling people like a hot knife through butter. Most of the crowd didn't even seem aware that they were giving ground to expensively tailored perfection, and the man acted as if it were his just due.

Ken hated people like that, lording it over the common, ordinary folks, and he made sure his opinion was visible on his face when the stranger made casual eye contact.

Right about then was when it occurred to the wiry brunet that he might be making a serious mistake, but he resolutely brushed the concept away.

Still walking toward him, the man practically stripped Ken naked with his challenging stare, seemingly seeing and dismissing the boy's compact musculature and aggressive stance as beneath his notice. As unworthy. Ken bristled, even as his instincts warned him to back down, to get out of the line of fire. The Hell. Hidaka Ken didn't back down for anybody, least of all some over-dressed salary man, no matter that he looked as if he could be the owner of the whole freaking mall.

He felt the familiar, hot burn of his temper… only, this time it didn't seem to be working. The stranger, tall and powerfully built, paused as he was passing, and inclined his head gracefully in Ken's direction.

"You smell really quite delectable," he murmured, the educated, upper-class voice low and outwardly bored. The tips of long fingers just grazed Ken's shoulder as the well-dressed man deliberated. Then he added, "Blood is such an aphrodisiac." His glasses glinted, concealing a lone, pewter-gray eye, and Ken fought the very real shiver that raced down his spine. The stranger took a measured step closer, then another, till his long white coat whispered sensuously against the boy's faded jeans jacket, and Ken's shiver nearly became a convulsion. He leaned weakly against the equally white exterior wall of the mall, curling his body instinctively to protect his vulnerable zones, and the bone-white man's smile grew terrifyingly feral and hungry. Then the episode was over, and the stranger was simply standing a good four feet from the shaking boy.

Of course, that was when Ken spotted a familiar, puppyish shape darting through the passers-by on the crowded sidewalk, heading his way.

Omi.

Ken wanted to scream at his partner to _Run_ but his lungs were seizing up, and only a dry cough escaped him.

That peculiar, silver eye glittered dangerously as the sleek head tilted, tracking the line of Ken's sight, swiveling the graceful body slightly. Mildly hysterical, the younger assassin noted that the weirdo never turned his back, never allowed Ken access to a more vulnerable, defenseless target. Whoever he was, he understood fighting. But then that hot gaze was lingering over Omi's oblivious form, following the contours of the deceptively frail, childish body of their littlest teammate, and something about the non-expression on the man's face made Ken's blood chill to ice water in his veins. He recognized that look: speculative, but hungry.

The look of a dominant predator.

And it was focused with single-minded intensity on Ken's best friend.

There was nothing for it; he had to intervene, to distract. Without thinking, the brunet invoked every ounce of clumsiness in his repertoire, and knocked against the pail by his feet that had held bunches of long stemmed carnations, and was now filled with a couple gallons of vaguely bitter, tea-colored water. A tidal wave sloshed out, flooding over the stranger's shoes, and splashing his pristine white slacks to the knees. The bigger man spun about, moving with a feline ease that was at odds with his size. The concealing wing of frost-white hair floated up, lifting in slow motion from his forehead, and revealed his other eye.

It stared down at Ken, in cold, reptilian brightness that absorbed every detail, and flayed the metaphoric flesh from his bones. The eye's vertical slit pupil contracted in the vivid sunshine, and Ken's heart squeezed shut along with it. Somewhere, deep in the part of his brain that was running around in tiny, little hysterical circles, a voice gibbered that slit pupils were a sign of a soul that had been contracted to Hell, but his animalistic reflexes were busy propelling a whimpering Ken backwards, slamming his shoulders into the textured concrete hard enough to bruise. He was too damned busy hyperventilating and panicking to listen to any nonsense about demons and contracts.

"Ohayo, Ken-kun!" The cheerful hail, instantly recognizable as Omi's light alto sent another spasm of terror through the brunet's body. The stranger's mismatched silver eyes narrowed, noting Ken's response and everything that it gave away, then he was moving smoothly on an intercept course with the boy jogging toward them.

For some reason, the trained assassin in Ken observed that after the first step, the peculiar man didn't leave any wet footprints behind, almost as if he had warped into some alternate dimension where no one else could see him. Certainly, Omi was oblivious to the danger bent on crossing his path, his open face lit by a happy grin as he headed toward his teammate.

Ken tried to scream _Run!_ but nothing came out this time, either.

He couldn't move, couldn't shout. The stranger was walking away, his long white coat swaying with the smooth rhythm of soundless footsteps, the sun blindingly bright on his gleaming white hair. Omi still didn't see the man, no matter that he was strikingly tall and broad shouldered, and dressed like no one else in the casual, work-a-day crowd. The two – petit teenager in his baggy brown cargo shorts and rock band tee-shirt, and alien apparition in white – brushed past each other, and for a bare second, Ken thought that he could start breathing again, and his heart start pumping blood, because nothing had happened. But then Omi paled and his clear, lake-blue eyes widened in shock. He staggered, halting with his feet planted well apart, and clutched at his stomach as those bewildered eyes looked down at his front.

Brilliant crimson was leaking over the boy's thin fingers, and dripping to the pavement.

Whatever thrall it was that held Ken bound silent and motionless was broken in that instant. He screamed "Omi!" and flung himself forward, kicking the plastic bucket at his feet. Its remaining brown water fountained up, but Ken scarcely noticed, dashing through the spray toward his friend. The blond boy glanced up at the shriek, blinking in confused recognition.

"K- Ken-kun…?" Omi whimpered. He took a single, stumbling stride forward, and crumpled. Somewhere, in the mass of people that had stopped its flow in and out of the mall doors, a falsetto screaming started up, and like a siren, it kept on wailing without a pause for breath. Ken shoved roughly between the pedestrians forming like a clot around his teammate, flinging himself to his knees.

"Omi!" he sobbed. "Dammit, you're not supposed to get hurt like this! We aren't even on a mission!" Indecisive, his hands hovered over the smaller boy's, torn between helping and fear that anything he did would make matters worse. His broad hands, muscular and blunt fingered, belonged to a killer. How could he possibly help?

"Stop, Ken-kun…" Bloody fingers clamped around Ken's, settling the question of whether to touch or not. Omi's eyes fluttered, the veiling, dark tawny lashes in stark contrast to the dilated pupils. "It's… not… that bad." the boy whimpered. "Just a slice. A mugging gone bad… _Right, Ken_?"

The peculiar emphasis on the final words cut through the paranoia and panic swirling in Ken's mind; Omi was giving him directions, telling him what to do. And, with that direction, his brain lurched back into gear.

They needed to be gone before mall security or, worse, the police arrived.

Decisive, Ken nodded, and said loudly, "I saw the mugger. He was headed for the parking garage." Like sheep, several people in the crowd immediately began an outraged murmur that they, too, had seen the culprit headed that way. The young Hunter's chocolate brown eyes lit on a salary man who had his cell phone out, presumably calling in the cops, and he added, "Hey, can you tell the police I'm taking my buddy to Tokyo General Hospital? It's really close, and I don't want him to wait for an ambulance to get here."

Startled, the businessman nodded, and began relaying the bogus details to the police dispatcher. Ken watched for a long moment then, satisfied, his gaze flickered back down to the blood-stained figure on the ground. Omi's mouth quirked in a trembling smile, and he gave a tiny nod of approval. Distraught, Ken whispered, "I'm sorry, Ommitchi, but this is gonna hurt." as he slid an arm carefully beneath the slightly built boy's legs, and another around his shoulders. A muffled inhalation confirmed that it _did_ hurt, but by then, Ken had his friend cradled against his chest, and was rising to his feet. No one made any effort to stop them as he broke into a trot and headed for the delivery van.

Thank God they didn't have the shop's name, just their logo of the grinning kitty painted on its side. With luck, no one would be able to give a decent description to the police, or think to note down their plate number; after all, Omi was the victim, not the bad guy, and they were on their way to the hospital.

Not that he had any intention of actually _going_ to Tokyo General.

* * *

**Hyssop** - Wards away evil spirits

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**To be continued. . .**


	10. Monozuki 10: Kyo and Dahlia

**Monozuki**** – **An Idle Curiosity

_A Weiss Kreuz/Yami no Matsuei crossover._

**By Kelly**

**Monozuki**** 10 – Kyo and Dahlia**

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**Review replies:**

**Fireun: **Glad to hear from you and yeah, I know about feeling lazy about reviewing, no matter how good the story. Perfectly understandable. Hopefully though, we get to hear more from you?

**Shaynie: **Heheh, Lisa was put out with me for a bit coz I forgot to tell her you reviewed. . .silly Kelly. How's life going for you then?

**Penny: **Your wish is my command.

**Amakurikara: **Why, thank you for such honest enthusiasm for fics from animes you're new in. Hope you'll keep reading, yes?

**Aj: **Wow, to think our work could incite such reaction! (grin) Hope your knee's feeling better.

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**To everyone: **

I am aware that some are feeling rather. . hesitant or unsure as to the significance of having Kyo and Takashi in this story, as well as some errors pointed out. See, I love Kyo and Taka. They're my OCs, yes, and I'm loathe to give them up. So bear with me and I assure you, what goes on with them both IS significant to this story.

As for errors and whatnot, please keep in mind that **Monozuki **started out as a drabble. It grew to have a plot, damn the thing, but in essence, it's not as important to me as my other stories are. Therefore, I. . er. . .tend to get a bit lax about bloopers and such. Heh.

That said, I hope you guys will stick with us anyway?

* * *

The coffee table between them made just an effective barrier as a ten-mile wide chasm would. The dark wood gleamed with polish – Takashi was quite meticulous about dust. Like an aberration though, a scar that marred the smooth finish, was the brown, dog-eared file Tatsumi had left behind even as he bid them goodbye with a wordless nod to Takashi, and the promise of a talk threatening Kyo behind opaque blue eyes.

Kyo hated the silence the secretary had left them with.

As though a _kekkai _had fallen into place, no sounds from the world outside their third floor apartment penetrated. And inside, even the ticking of the clock above the tv sounded muffled, distant. He and Takashi were sealed in a transparent bubble that shrank smaller and smaller with every breath they took and he _hated _it.

Silence gave him too much of an opportunity to think, to worry, to gnaw over thoughts alien to him and yet so familiar.

_. . .san. . . _

Just the faintest breath, an evanescent touch of a ghostly hand against his cheek. Kyo tried to reach out for the voice that eluded him, the one that danced and twisted in his thoughts like a virus, eating away at his peace till chaos and confusion reigned and shrieked.

Insanity for him came in the sound of the dull rasping of chains across a concrete floor, a metallic clink and rattle that pervaded his sleep and made him scream – anything to drown out the sound.

"Why did you lie to me Kyo?"

The question as was asked so softly; did Takashi fear to break the silence as well? Would popping the bubble be dangerous? For him as well as Takashi? But no, that couldn't be it. Because as he refused to answer, staring down at his clasped hands, Takashi, dear, sweet, beloved Takashi was raising his voice and anger colored each word, beating into his head with the force of a blow.

"I told you that I don't want you anywhere near them Kyo! I specifically asked you that and you promised!"

"—and you go behind my back, fooling me!"

"—lies! Are there more I don't know of! Why—"

"—Kyo!"

"Kyo!"

_"Kyo!"_

"I'm sorry." It was just a whisper, but he might as well have shouted it for the effect it had on Takashi. The former sensei, his husband, his love, his grip on reality, subsided, sagged even. The earlier vitriol could have used up his entire vitality – Takashi seemed to shrink into himself, become smaller, more insignificant, and Kyo felt pain, as real as it was insubstantial, rip him apart from the inside out for being the cause.

He scrambled over the table, never mind that the file got scattered in the process and cold coffee got spilt. Kyo flew into Takashi's arms and a small part of him, a very little part, so tiny and miniscule, was smug at the thought that even in the deepest of rages, Takashi could never turn him away. The day that Takashi did would mean his death. Kyo's. And Takashi's. Because if he could not have Takashi, then no one else will. Not even the world.

Kyo inhaled, deeply. The musky scent of vanilla, and underneath it, the clean smell of the soap they use, and deeper still, something that was all Takashi. He burrowed himself into Takashi's embrace, begged for Takashi to forgive him, without words, just the desperation infusing his every touch.

"You destroy me, Kyo."

He heard the ragged, broken voice and he whimpered, cuddling deeper. "No no no not true," he whispered, peppering kisses all over Takashi's face. "Only what I need to, never more, never more." Was he making sense? Did he need to? Takashi understood him, always will.

Except for this.

But he'd make his husband understand. Because something told him that he needed Takashi there when he hears the answer. And it was the question that he needed to ask, oh so badly that he would deliberately go against an order made by a man he respected above everyone else save Takashi.

He _must _see them again. The assassins. The ones who killed by night and wore a smile the next day.

"I have to know, Taka," he said in a low whisper to the corner of his husband's mouth. Takashi turned his head slightly, caught his lips with his own and they kissed, tongues touching briefly.

Takashi broke it off. "Know what?" he asked as his hands, large, sure and strong, caressed sweet patterns down Kyo's back, tracing delineated muscles.

Kyo concentrated on the feel of those hands, reveled in the sweet intoxication that flooded his mind and drowned out the cold clinking of chains. He surged against Takashi, felt the man's sharply indrawn breath, rocking briefly against the arousal pressed against his groin. "I need to know how they do it," he moaned into Takashi's mouth.

They tussled for a moment, his strength and agility against Takashi's. Takashi won, because Takashi knew all of his weaknesses, knew he couldn't fight back when sharp teeth nipped the thin skin above his collarbone, knew he was helpless when confident hands stroked his hip, traced the curve of his buttocks, and pressed the cleft between with the lightest of touches.

Limp and obedient in Takashi's arms, the former sensei flipped them over on the couch, ending with Kyo underneath the taller man, back arched as their hips grinded together, fire congealing the blood in his veins.

"Know what?" Takashi demanded again and the plain tee shirt Kyo wore was ripped away with a ferocity that sang of more violence to come and he welcomed it. It wasn't just the sex. Oh, he loved the act, that was undeniable. But what he loved even more was the stark reality that grounded him, even as he soared beyond his physical body when Takashi was so deep inside him, pain transcended into bliss. Because when Takashi fucked him into oblivion, Kyo remembered who he was and he remembered who he will be and he remembered that the madness was all in his mind and that he could _control _it.

Takashi loomed over him, staring down with eyes that burned with a fire that threatened to consume him and it held him fast. "Answer me," his husband commanded and he presaged that command with a kiss that bruised his lips and drew blood.

His tongue flicked out and the copper-iron taste filled his mouth.

He caught Takashi's face between his hands, held the man still and he answered. "I need to know how it is possible that they can kill, and continue living."

Takashi broke free, catching his wrists and pinning them to his sides. Pupils dilated, it was Takashi who looked crazed, not him. "We are Shinigami," the older man said harshly. Hard fingers dug into his wrists, bruising them as surely as his lips were but like the man said, they were Shinigami. "We kill, and we go on living. What can they tell you that Tatsumi or Tsuzuki can't? That I can't?"

"My poor baby," was what Kyo murmured instead. A gentle tug, and one of his hand was freed and he traced the back of his hand against the smooth curve of Takashi's jawbone, rubbed his cheek comfortingly. Because Kyo heard the personal loathing in Takashi's voice, knew that the hate and shame was directed at no one but inward – Takashi was a doctor, someone who gave life and now he took it instead. "How can you hate yourself still when everyone else doesn't?

Takashi shook his head, dislodging Kyo's hand. "This is not about _me_," he grated out. "Why _them_? What do they have? Why seek the answer from them?"

Kyo stared at him with haunted eyes.

He told Takashi why.

"Because they're human."

* * *

Tatsumi permitted them to sit before his desk in two, rather uncomfortable, spindly wooden chairs. Kyo long suspected that the furniture choice was deliberate – the perfect setting to impress upon the recalcitrant Shinigami unlucky enough to be called into Tatsumi's inner sanctum that he _had _a job and wages purely on the dark-haired secretary's sufferance. The fact that Konoe had that aged, brass plaque bearing the title 'chief' was an inconvenience nobody wished to bring up, not even Konoe himself.

It was a simple, true adage the Shinigami of the Shokan believed in – what Tatsumi says, goes.

And for this, Kyo was willing to beg.

Hands folded serenely on top of the dark blotter, desktop free from any backlog paperwork, Tatsumi studied the two of them with a steady regard that, as experience taught Kyo, dismissed nothing. That steady, dark blue gaze could not miss the fact that the partners, left earlier that morning in what promised to be a righteously flaming row, were seated quite close together, spindly chairs aside, and holding hands. Kyo was also entirely aware that he was radiating sated pleasure – lovemaking had that effect on him. Not to mention the added bonus of helping him focus on the present; on the delicious ache of his buttocks, the remembered wet-scraping-fiery kisses that left deep marks all over his body and the slight burn of his throat from ecstasy-driven screaming.

The floating feathers – pure white, barred brownish amber, black even – was merely to exercise his fine motor control over Air, an extremely tricky element to master completely. The fact that he had occasionally used the (School of? Swarm of? Flock of?) feathers to commit grievous acts of thievery when the office was supplied with chocolate glazed doughnuts for morning break was too trivial to be mentioned. Or the fact that he once had the feathers morphed into a three-dimensional figure of Konoe Kacho doing a striptease during the New Year's archery competition (he didn't exactly _planned _it to happen when it was the Hokkaido sisters' turn).

A slight smile flickered the corner of Tatsumi's mouth.

"Tatsumi-san," Kyo began, after an encouraging look from his husband. He stopped, blushed, and lowered his head. "I apologize, for going against your orders and bringing trouble upon the Shokan. I realize my error in misleading my partner and in deliberately cooperating in further disregard of your instructions. I promise to try my best, to not repeat such shameful behavior."

Even the feathers looked apologetic.

Kyo fisted his free hand in his lap; embarrassment made him unwilling to face the secretary in the eye. That, and the fact that he still had a favor to ask of the man. A favor which he knew would rankle the Kagetsukai, especially now. There was a rustle, the soft click of heels and leather shoes, shined to perfection, entered his field of vision and a strong hand, lightly calloused, tipped his chin up.

"There's something else." Tatsumi said it quite softly, without any rancour, yet Kyo flinched, shooting his partner a desperate look. The shadow-wielder had provided an opening, yet he felt strangely reluctant to pursue it. Hanging over him was Takashi's earlier reluctance – the former sensei didn't want anything to do with those humans anymore. Only his insisting that there was something more, something important that will be discovered quietened his partner's protest. But Takashi's displeasure was still evident, judging by his silence. Yet his husband came through for him in the end, and it shot warm pleasure down his spine.

"Tatsumi-san," Takashi began slowly. He locked gazes with the secretary, Tatsumi assessing the former sensei with grave regard. "There may be circumstances that we haven't fully considered."

"Such as?" Tatsumi released the younger Shinigami, and rested his hip on his desk. The air of polite attentiveness made a warning shrill at the back of Kyo's mind; Tatsumi was most dangerous when at his most courteous.

Apparently, Takashi was aware of that fact, as well. He flushed, and coughed. "Er, yes. . . I've read Hisoka-kun's report, and I have to agree with his assessment that the situation is one that would draw Muraki-sensei, even if he is not the perpetrator."

Tatsumi smiled benignly. Kyo's hackles were instantly raised. "Takashi-kun," he rebuked in gentle tones. Arms crossed, there was a dangerous glitter in his icy-blue eyes. One that neither of them missed. "You're basing that on the reports of one who has had prior negative experience with the sensei. Who's to say that Hisoka-kun is not being paranoid?"

Kyo couldn't help himself. Or, at least that was what he told himself as he opened his mouth and blurted out, "But Tatsumi-san, the death of someone of importance to Muraki-sensei would attract him, right? He's bound to turn up, and since the Shokan hasn't had a lot of luck tracing him the past few years, this might be our chance to find out what he's been up to."

"But why Weiss?" Tatsumi responded sharply. The man was instantly back on his feet, only to place his hands on the armrests of Kyo's chair, effectively trapping the boy. Takashi made to protest, but was silenced by a warning glance from the secretary. "Why," Tatsumi continued quietly, "Would, on all accounts, a broken man, be interested in a team of assassins? We have no proof that they were involved, neither do the human authorities. I have Takashi's own professional assessment that Muraki Kazutaka is clinically insane, unable to function in normal society. A death, and him disappearing, is not conclusive proof."

The array of attendant feathers scattered in alarm, just as Kyo's eyes widened. It was unlikely that his argument to Takashi that he just _had_ to know how the young mortals could do what they did, and retain their humanity, would cut any ice with the skeptical Kagetsukai. Tatsumi dealt in numbers, and facts, and hard-to-quantify 'gut feelings' did not make a convincing argument.

Agitation made the feathers swirl, a tight whirlpool of white, brown and black which Tatsumi calmly took in with a glance. There was a roaring in his ears, muted, yet there all the same and he grabbed the lapels of Tatsumi's coat. He needed to make the man understand. "We have to!" he gasped. _My chest hurts_, he thought vaguely. "Because if we don't, there'll be more—"

Takashi and Tatsumi waited warily, yet when Kyo merely stared straight ahead, seemingly absorbed with Tatsumi's tie, the secretary gently disengaged Kyo's death-grip on his suit. "Kyo?" Tatsumi murmured. "Are you alright? What do you mean, there'll be more?"

Kyo blinked, shaking his head in bewilderment. "Huh?" He looked at Tatsumi and Takashi blankly, noting their uncomfortably intent gaze. "What?"

Takashi looked away, anguish tightening his lips into a thin line. The secretary thoughtfully adjusted his glasses, settling them with precise care on the bridge of his nose as he came to a decision. "Hmm. Very well, then. I can see that you are quite adamant concerning the importance of this case. As it happens, there are those who agree with you." He turned away, as if the orderly surface of his desk was of more interest.

"What?" The former doctor's discomfort was forgotten as Takashi gaped at the broad back in its neatly tailored suit. "W- wait a minute, Tatsumi-san. What are you talking about?"

For a moment, it seemed that Tatsumi hadn't heard him, then the man seated himself deliberately, and picked up a single sheet of paper that had rested unnoticed on his desk's pristine blotter. "I have received a memo from the August Personage whom we all serve," he said formally. "There are certain. . .'irregularities'. . .that cannot be explained that have appeared in the Kiseki. Further investigation is considered to be warranted."

Takashi's eyes narrowed dangerously. "So you were planning on allowing us all along?" he demanded. "Then what's with letting us beg? You could have said it from the start!"

A sharp crack silenced Kyo's partner, making the younger Shinigami jump in surprise. He had been bowled over by Tatsumi's frank admission that despite his feelings to the contrary, they were, in essence, given permission by Enma-Daioh himself to pursue Weiss further. Tatsumi's rare display of anger, _I'll bet his hand must hurt like a bitch, slapping the desk like that_, Kyo wondered, only emphasized that conclusion.

"We all serve Death, here in Meifu," Tatsumi said, voice low and dark. Fascination gripped Kyo; were Tatsumi's sapphire blue eyes filling up with shadows? The Kagetsukai locked gazes with his husband, seemingly forgetting his presence and that suited Kyo fine. He had gotten what he wanted. The whys were not important. But seeing two powerful men he respected, both the type to exude a kind of confidence that could not be faked, locked in a stare off was rather thrilling.

His feathers agreed whole-heartedly. Bobbing in excitement, the feathers settled around his shoulders, both watching the show with childlike anticipation.

Tatsumi continued, "We strive for the same purpose, but that does not mean I agree with the methods employed to achieve it. Are you saying, Takashi-san, that you're comfortable with allowing Kyo further contact with these human assassins? I know you, Takashi." The more intimate form of address appeared to drain the hostility from the former sensei. Rapt, Kyo watched as Takashi smiled wryly, silently acknowledging the secretary's reasoning. "I know that we _both _would rather Kyo, Tsuzuki and Hisoka cease their. . .meddling."

Kyo protested wordlessly, feathers looping furiously in agreement. He wouldn't call it _meddling! _That was just too crass for his taste.

"Nevertheless," Tatsumi sighed, leaning back in his seat. "What's done is done. Matters are now out of my hands, since Enma-sama _and _Hakushaku-sama has seen fit to make their intentions clear. Weiss is to be kept under surveillance, and Muraki Kazutaka is again, the Shokan's top priority."

"The Count has made a decree?" Takashi asked in surprise. Automatically, he made space for Kyo who had scrambled over, demanding to sit between his legs. Arms locked around his young partner, more to quiet him down, Takashi frowned. "It's rare for both Enma-sama and the Count to show active interest in humans. . ."

"Very," Tatsumi agreed sourly. He made his distaste clear, holding up a paper bearing the watermark of the Hall of the Dead with only two fingers. "Both our Lord and the Count has allowed for. . .extreme measures, should we encounter Muraki, no matter the occasion. It seems he has tried Enma-sama's patience beyond endurance."

Kyo stilled, ears perking up even as he fussed with Takashi's tie. His husband likewise had a death grip on a fistful of Kyo's hair, so surprised he was.

"We're allowed to _kill him?_"

Kyo mewled in protest and Takashi released his painful grip, murmuring absent apologies to the young Shinigami.

"Yes."

That one affirmation had the ring of a funeral bell. Shinigami killed, yes, but only mortals who were _supposed _to die, but didn't. Actually murdering one whose name had yet to enter the Kiseki was against all rules. Only the most extreme circumstances, when self-defense dictated that no other option was available would a Shinigami take a human life, and even then, the repercussions would be felt for weeks, years, _decades_.

The stark assurance Tatsumi had delivered his response with shook Takashi. Kyo could tell. His _koi _was too still, practically a statue, mind probably whirling and tumbling like a mad Cirque du Soleil acrobat. Hmm, would Taka take him to see the next show?

Tatsumi's practical tones broke Kyo's train of thoughts on acrobats, circus tents and elephants. "There's more."

Takashi swore under his breath.

"Enma-sama has seen fit to instruct us in seeing to the recruitment of the Weiss members as potential Shinigami."

_"WHAT!"_

Before Takashi could do more to express his shock (Kyo wiggled a finger in his ear, scowling ferociously; Takashi had shouted straight in his ear, damn the man), the door burst open with much unanticipated fanfare. There was outraged yelling, annoyed hooting and general mayhem as honed instincts had the three Shinigami jumping up in surprise, various weapons of destructions ready at hand.

Tatsumi with a shadow knife, Takashi with his hands crackling with energy he drew from the very fabric of Meifu and Kyo with a foot-long, extremely sharp icicle in his hand and feathers in attack formation.

Only for the three of them to be somewhat let down that the intruder was none other than Watari and his owl, 003.

Said scientist however, looked to be ready and willing to commit murder and mayhem, backed by his trusty miniature owl. Long blond hair frizzy and positively haloing his head in furious disorder, Watari howled a wordless yell of fury and pointed menacingly at a very surprised Kyo.

"You!" Watari shouted. "Fowl thief! Heartless criminal and perpetrator of deadly sins! How dare you!"

Kyo, rather bewildered and frankly, a little hurt, gaped and gestured vaguely. "What did I do?"

"What did you do! What did _you do! _He has the gall, the NERVE to ask what did he do, 003-kun!" Watari wailed, tugging his hair in righteous drama. "He dares to ask that when the proof is right _there! Floating without a care in the world!"_

The three Shinigami exchanged silent looks that conveyed a conversation - one which involved tranquilizers and more vacation time.

"Yutaka-kun," Kyo said cautiously. He held out his hands placatingly. "Are you talking about my feathers?"

Watari gasped, a hand clutching his chest. "So you admit it!"

"Admit what!"

"You _stole _003-kun's feathers, right under our very noses! From 003! He's like a brother to you! How ungrateful could you be! All just for the sake of _playing with them! _And don't give me any crack about practicing your magic either!"

There was, a moment of perfect silence. Then, in a deceptively calm voice, Kyo replied, "Yutaka-kun. . .I took _shed feathers only. _You know, the ones 003 leaves lying about? Particularly the ones he _deliberately throws away?"_

Again, that perfect silence descended.

A sniff, and then, quite sulkily. . ."It's the thought that counts."

* * *

**Dahlia: **Instability

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**Kelly: **Ah, we begin to see the plot unveiling itself. Actually, that probably began with Muraki wreaking havoc on Weiss' lives. . .and you know what? Muraki is gonna do MORE. Coz we said so. Coz I LIKE Muraki, damn the evil, evil man.

Review. It's good for the soul.


	11. Monozuki 11: Yohji and Begonias

**Monozuki**** –**_An Idle Curiosity_

_A Weiss Kreuz/Yami no Matsuei crossover._

**Monozuki**** 11 – Yohji and Begonias**

**By Lisa**

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**Review replies:**

**Beysie: **Wahey! Lisa was over the moon with your great review (yes, it's Kelly here as it's my duty to upload on and her, on Weiss' recruitment is still in the air, a rather tentative thing so we're not sure whether we're taking this that far. We do have a major climax for this story so there is that to look forward to. . .actually, I'm slightly pissed that this developed a plot. . .I was aiming for something plotless, damn my imagination. . .(but I love it anyway). I actually enjoyed writing about Taka and Kyo fighting, as it rarely happens. Things tend to explode when they do. . .

**Amakurikara: **You're spoiling us with your enthusiastic reviews, you really are. When I _don't _get reviews as exuberant as yours, I get disappointed. . .(grin). I sincerely hope this story will continue to entertain you.

**OctoberLeaves: **Fellow Muraki-lovers, unite! ( love doctors in anime. . .I love Umeda, I love Muraki, I love Seishirou. . ah)

**MikaSamu: **Glad you enjoyed the intensity of the last one. I enjoyed writing it too as a pissed-off Tatsumi is so. . .wow.

**RuByMoOn17, aki konoe: **Muraki is appearing again in this chapter (yay!) and Omi soon!

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**Note: **The Watari scene was the product of an innocent Y!M chat about what kind of exercise Kyo does to improve his control over Air (not his weakest element, but rather, the hardest to manipulate). I wanted something else originally but was afraid I'd end up sounding like I ripped off **Viridian5**. . .hence came the feathers. . .and Watari popping up in my head screaming, "How dare you use 003's!"

I never claimed total sanity y'know.

* * *

Ah, hung over and alone in bed. . .I had frittered away Sunday between sleeping and recovering from drinking, and here it was already Monday again. Is there any crueler way to wake up than that? I rubbed a hand over my eyes, and cast my mind back to the weekend, trying to pinpoint where it all had gone so terribly, terribly wrong. Was it when the pretty little _bishounen_ danced out of my life Saturday night, or later, when Aya – Aya! Moody, broody, angsty, undeniably gorgeous Aya – told me to fuck off as he stormed out in a royal snit?

Um. . .It was a tough call. Personally, I was leaning a little toward the unknown beauty at the club, taken together with his equally tasty companion; Aya would still be around for me to annoy tomorrow and the next day, but I figured that I had had my one, lone chance at the pretty, pretty boy. The way my morning wood twitched sympathetically told me that all the votes were in, and the little bishie was the winner.

Damn, but I hated to lose on _all_ fronts. . .Maybe I ought to go see if Aya was around? It was pushing the mid-day rush, and according to Ayan-Taisho, that meant all hands on deck. It might win me a few points if I turned up voluntarily, and saved him having to come drag me out of my lair.

Nah, why wreck a perfectly good streak? That red haired slave-driver could come get me himself.

But somehow, the temptation to go have a look at him just wouldn't go away. Maybe it was discovering that he liked to sleep in nothing but threadbare old sweats? Now there was a vision that could make a hungry man weep: Aya bare-chested, tousled, and as mortal as the rest of us. And twice as appealing. Given the naughty thoughts that I had entertained about his icy, work-a-day persona, there was probably a demon warming up a special spot in Hell just for me now that I had seen this other side to him.

It would be worth it, too, if I could break down that infamous control and make him beg and scream. My cock twitched in eager agreement, and I was perfectly happy go along with the majority stock-holder. . .Stocks. . .That reminded me; Omittchi's school was off today, and he and Kenken were supposed to head for the mall to do a little sightseeing. If their recon went well, there was an even chance that we would all be doing a little overtime work tonight. I didn't have a problem with _that_ per se, but going out on a Kritiker assignment had two bad consequences that I could see, right off. First, with Omi and Ken gone to scope out the target, Aya-sweetie had been manning the shop solo since the end of the before-school rush, making for a pissy _kenkaku_. And, second, it meant no going clubbing tonight, and I was _not_ in the mood for a third lonesome night.

Crap. My happy morning mood was going right down the proverbial toilet. I didn't even feel like taking an edge off by engaging in a little personal quality time with my hard-on. And I was already too wide awake to just roll over, pretend none of it had happened, and go back to sleep. Might as well just get up and write the whole thing off as a loss.

I dragged on a pair of clean pants and snagged a short-sleeved, vee-necked pull-over in a nice shade of chocolate brown that always brought out the highlights in my autumn-leaf hair, making it look more gold than brown. Finger-comb back the hair itself, and use a hair-tie to hold all but a few artful strands that nicely framed my face, and _voila_, I was ready to slip on a pair of _uwazouri_ and head for work. I snagged my shades off the top of my bureau, perched them on the end of my nose, and let the efficiency's door slam shut behind me. Elapsed time, five minutes, and I was already just about to the office. Best damned commute in Tokyo.

In addition to that speedy commute, there really were some advantages in privacy to our current set-up; tiny apartments on the third floor, communal living space on the second, shop and storeroom on the ground floor. Oh, and let's not forget assassins' central in the basement. When the weather was good, we could go up and spar on the roof, or, in Aya's case, practice those damned _katas_ alone. I liked watching, but he alternated between cold indifference and livid hostility, and me, I didn't care to be chased down a flight of stairs by a homicidal maniac with a sword. Especially not when there was no telling if Ayan's sense of team spirit extended to holding back on the bodily damage, or not.

But God in Heaven, that boy had the moves.

I wondered if he knew how to dance. Vertical, or horizontal, I would love to see him put that supple body to good use.

Now, that was a question I was happy to spend some time contemplating. Omittchi, patron saint of the computer keyboard that the little guy was, had managed to hack some of the less sensitive of the files in Kritiker's possession, and as a result, we knew a little bit about the irascible redhead. For example, we knew that he had belonged to another team before landing his current gig with Weiss – something called 'Crashers.' What precisely made the Crashers unit special was still something of a mystery, but thanks to the computer boy wonder, though, we had gotten our hands on a photo of Ayan wearing a long black coat with more buckles and zippers than a fetishist's wet dream.

I wondered where that coat was… I would definitely go into mourning if it had been destroyed. Maybe, just maybe, Aya had it hanging in the depths of his Spartan closet, neatly tucked into a garment bag? Maybe I could talk him into modeling it? Unconsciously, I snorted at that. Yeah, right. . .Time to check the temperature in Hell.

But still. . .I couldn't quite suppress the shivery little thrill that went straight to my groin at the thought of Aya, that black leather ensemble, and my own fingers undoing every fucking zipper. Slowly.

Damn. Some part of my thoughts must have been visible on my face, because Aya's lovely eyes widened and darkened the second I slouched in through the back door, into the shop proper. Then he was off the stool he had perched on in front of the battered work table, stalking past me, and slamming out through the door to the alley behind the shop.

Ouch. That was cold. Even for anti-social Ayan.

And belatedly, I realized that he had left _me_ solely in charge of the shop. Bastard.

Well, if he was gone, at least he couldn't bitch at me about smoking, or guzzling all the coffee in the shop's pot. Shrugging, I snagged a cup of coffee and headed for the list of orders that my erstwhile teammate had abandoned on the table in his haste to escape. The good news was that there were only a couple of simple bouquets left to make up. . .and the bad news was that there were only a couple of simple bouquets left. There was nothing on there that I couldn't do in my sleep, and with my favorite swordsman gone from the premises, I would soon have nothing to keep me occupied. I was doomed to that fate worse than death: boredom.

So when the bell attached to the front door jangled, it was met with a Kudoh Extra Special Smile, sent winging on its way with a thankful prayer. Fortunately, the tall man dressed all in white who was the recipient didn't seem disturbed in the slightest, and that gave me hope that the day was still salvageable. "_Irasshaimase_!" I called cheerfully, abandoning the orders in my turn to come up to the front.

That Extra Special Smile faltered just a tiny bit, though, in the newcomer's presence. There was something subtly. . .terrifying. . .about the urbane smile, and the faintly mocking expression that he wore. I'm generally not intimidated by big people – Hell, I'm taller than the average, myself – but this man was nearly threatening, even with his aura of polished sophistication. Maybe it was the broad shoulders, clearly visible under the tailored white suit jacket, and the equally white coat that he wore open over top of that. Maybe it was the way his longish, snowy hair hung down so that only one chill gray eye was visible behind the glittering glass of wire-rimmed spectacles. I don't know. But my instincts were immediately screaming 'Watch the fuck out!' and I had learned the hard way, as a PI, and later as a Hunter, to never, ever ignore those instincts.

Still, he was a customer, and he was in our shop. I took a deep breath and plastered that smile right back up where it belonged. "Welcome to the Koneko no Sume Ie. Is there something special we can help you with today?"

That dangerous smile widened into a smirk – and not the fun kind, either. This was more the sort of smile a shark would give, assuming sharks were _built_ like that and preferred dry land. He tilted his head slightly, examining me with cold silver as if his gaze was a scalpel, and I was a homicide victim requiring an autopsy. There was no controlling the shiver that rolled down my spine, and it was all I could do to not join Aya where ever he might be hiding. Fuck me, but this guy was _scary_. And worse, he seemed very aware of the effect he was having on me. It didn't help that he had one of the sexiest voices I have ever heard: lower even than Aya's, and rich like honey mixed with cream. Tall, white and handsome drawled, "Hm. . .Normally, I would take a dozen of your best, long-stemmed red roses, but I've been a bit too busy lately to attend to the one that those are best suited for. I think, perhaps, today I would like a bouquet of croceum lilies and mock orange blossoms."

I almost – almost – opened my mouth to argue with him, to point out that his choices signified hatred and deceit in the language of flowers. But something in that knowing gaze stopped me cold. What the Hell? We had the flowers in stock, oddly enough, and a sale was a sale. It's not as if this job was my life's work, anyway. I fetched the stalks of orange lilies from the big cooler, and had them tied up with a spray of the sweet-scented white blossoms with their glossy green foliage in a jiffy. The effect was a bit odd, but that might just be because I was used to using the mock orange in Western-style wedding arrangements, and not with the fiery lilies. My surreal customer took the paper-wrapped bouquet and paid his yen without uttering another word, which was just as well considering that by this time I was beyond shaken. Where the Hell was Aya, anyway? I couldn't believe that the bastard hadn't come back yet, even though, realistically, it had been less than ten minutes since he had marched past me and out the door.

Fuck. I didn't just need a cigarette, I needed a drink. _Think fast, Kudoh_, I told myself. In something like twenty minutes, we would be up to our you-know-whats in giggling, squealing, _underage_ girls, not a one of whom was suitable for anything more than a tiny bit of ego stroking. I hadn't heard the tell-tale sounds of the shop's delivery van out back yet, which meant that Kenken and Omittchi were probably stuck in traffic somewhere. And Aya would never condone closing the shop for the day unless we were actively on a mission, or too many of us were too badly injured to operate the place without attracting the wrong sorts of attention. Having the girls fawn over us when we were all healthy was bad enough, but they always gave the impression that something as trivial as a hangnail was a life or death matter.

Still, if I didn't get a quick break in now, it would be at least an hour, more like two, until I would get another chance. Decision made, I flipped the deadbolt on the front door, and set the 'be back in ten' sign in the window sill. Breathing a sigh of relief, I trotted for the back door, and headed for our shared kitchen. There was a bottle of vodka in the freezer, and a shot of that would work wonders for my nerves.

Now, Aya despises vodka. I've seen him drink enough sake that he shouldn't have been conscious, let alone capable of swinging that katana of his, and he can name the different grades just by the smell of the stuff alone, but he claims that vodka is suitable only for use as an antifreeze. Maybe it's one of those rare things that he gets Japanese about? Who knows? And right at the moment, who cares?

Really good vodka deserved to be drunk right, and that meant straight up, not mixed with tonic, or over ice. Normally, I would put the shot glass in the freezer along side of the bottle for at least an hour, but that wasn't going to work if I intended to open the front door in time for the fangirl invasion.

The sacrifices we make.

Still, it was a bottle of very good vodka. This cold, it was viscous, with a creamy-blue tint to it, and it flowed into the glass like frozen tears. I cradled the glass in my hand just long enough to take the worst of the chill off of it, so that it wouldn't freeze my taste buds. I wanted to enjoy the smooth sweetness as the shot went down, because this wasn't the cheap, caustic stuff that some of the local bars stocked, but premium grade.

Even so, I shuddered when the icy liquid hit the bottom of my empty stomach. With nothing else in there except for a slurp of morning coffee, I figured I would be feeling no pain _before_ I had to unlock that door. But just to be on the safe side, I poured another half portion, and this time took a bit of it on my tongue to savor. The trick was to let it rest on the palate while exhaling through the nose, to get a better feel for the aroma. This bottle had a fine, sweet grain scent, not a nasty medicinal one, and I blessed the impulse that had made me spend the extra yen on it. As I tossed back the rest of the shot to join the paradoxical cold/hot sensation spreading from my belly, I mourned briefly that I didn't have the proper foods to go with the drink; ideally some sturdy Russian bread, potatoes, and maybe some poached salmon.

Omi's left over _onigiri_ just weren't going to cut it.

Ah, well. Maybe I would shock my teammates later by cooking. It would be worth the effort to see the contained suspicion on Ayan's face, and both Kenken and Omittchi would give me some enthusiastic praise. The littlest _bishounen_ especially could use some feeding up if he was ever to get some height on him. The brat had hardly grown in the years I'd know him, still looking like a twelve-year-old, even though he had to be pushing seventeen by now. Grinning, equilibrium of the universe restored, I tucked the vodka back into the freezer and turned to set my glass in the sink for washing later.

And stopped dead.

_What the fuck?_ I have no idea why the scent hadn't registered on me sooner; that cloying mix of copper and warm sweetness, tainted by citrus. . .And it was damned careless of me to have let my guard down, even if this was our home. Especially because this was our home. But it was the visual that really toasted my brain cells and made the higher functions shut down.

Brilliantly orange lilies, together with smaller, snow-white flowers with a little cluster of yellow stamen in the center of each, and green, green leaves were lovingly arranged in a circle around the eviscerated body of a very dead tabby cat. The stretched out corpse lay in the middle of a pattern drawn in red and rust, colors that an objective observer in the corner of my brain promptly identified as blood, and not the cheesy fake stuff that comes from a joke shop, either. This was the real McCoy, glistening shiny wet in places, dull and drying in others, and it was painted across the entire top of our old kitchen table in a pattern of complex swirls and characters.

The shot glass dropped from my suddenly lax fingers, bounced once, miraculously didn't shatter, and promptly rolled under the table. Where it could stay, as far as I was concerned, because there was no way that I was getting any closer to that abomination than I had to. In fact, I backed up until the corner of the counter caught me painfully in the butt, putting a halt to the increasingly frantic retreat. That little jab of pain, however, kicked the Kudoh intellect back into gear.

How the Hell had someone managed to do all this, without Aya or I noticing?

Okay, first off, I recognized those flowers; I had just sold them to that customer less than ten minutes earlier. For him to have gotten around to the alley, through the door, and into the kitchen was not impossible, just freaky. It was daylight, and the alarms on the doors were silenced so that we wouldn't constantly be setting them off, ourselves, as we ran in and out. Judging by the condition of the non-floral part of the decorations, odds were that he had laid out the dead animal and done his calligraphy _before_ purchasing the bouquet. That suggested a cool character, with nerves of steel, and a Hell of a lot of faith in himself.

I could do 'nerves of steel,' too. Especially now that the urge to scream for Aya the way Omi occasionally did, when a particularly bad nightmare hit, had passed.

The choice of flowers had to be a deliberate warning that someone had taken offense over us, or our actions. Kritiker's network wasn't quite what it had been before the events of recent months – both Takatori and Esstet related – but they still had the manpower to take care of the legwork to track down our mysterious visitor. He was distinctive enough, with his nearly albino looks, that surely someone would know who he was. Once we found the connection to Weiss and unraveled it, it wouldn't be that hard to neutralize the threat.

Or so I fervently hoped, as a secondary message contained in the gory tableau occurred to me:

_Mock orange is a deadly poison for kitties._

* * *

**Begonia:** Be wary.

· Mock Orange and its uses: www. floralartmall. com/ philadelphys. html

· Vodka and way more than you ever wanted to know about how to consume it: www. vodkaphiles. com/ howto. cfm

· **uwazouri**** - **indoor sandals

· **irasshaimase**** - **welcome (in shops etc.)

· No set bibliography for flowers in general. There are a couple of books and several websites that we've been using for the flower meanings in these chapters. Often they give conflicting meanings, so we use whichever one suited us best. (One site went so far as to claim that 'reversing' a flower gave it the opposite meaning. Now, I know that works for tarot cards, but I'm a little confused as to how you can do that in a bouquet without it looking completely idiotic. Hopefully, we won't have to resort to that!)

* * *

**Kelly: **By the way, if you've been reading this, but haven't checked out **Lisa/LibraryCat's **Weiss Kreuz fic, "Reflections" (to be found on mediaminer . org and shame on you. That story has a level of detail I despair of achieving.

Oh, and review. It feels good.


	12. Monozuki 12: Omi and Mint

**Monozuki**** – **_An Idle Curiosity_

_A Weiss Kreuz/Yami no Matsuei crossover_.

**Monozuki**** 12 – Omi and Mint**

**By Lisa and Kelly (but mostly Lisa)**

* * *

**Review replies:**

**PJ Zatken: **Thanks for that! Hopefully _Monozuki _can help you with your new love for WK!

**Aki Konoe: **Dearest, thanks so much for still sticking with me till now, even when my writing was bad! (grin) As to the Muraki fic. . .er. . .

**Amakurikara****, RuByMoOn17: **(grin) Look, chapter 12! And Muraki will come up soon. Hopefully.

**Ysabet: **Wow, you're like, one of my favourite authors in YnM! Feels good, knowing that you're reading this (grin). The chapter titles were done out of amusement at first (as was _Monozuki _in the first place). Who knew it'd come to this?

* * *

_Ow__ . .It hurts. . ._Omi pressed a hand to the bandage that Ken had slapped over the gash across his belly and hissed shakily. Another bump like that last one, and he might lose the battle to remain conscious.

How could such a shallow cut bleed so badly?

"Ken-kun. . ." he groaned. "Drive. . .slower!"

Omi could feel a thin trail of sticky wetness following the line of his waistband, soaking into the rear of his shirt and from there into the upholstery. Aya was going to be absolutely livid, and with good reason: they couldn't afford to have anyone connect the dots between their daytime lives, and what they did at night. Another trembling inhalation, and pain stitched brightly from his navel to the spot on the bridge of his nose, right between his eyebrows, and involuntarily the boy whimpered. Ken nearly stood on the brakes in his haste to slow down and check on his younger companion.

"Oh god, Omi! Are you okay?" came his frantic cry. Only the fact that they were still moving kept the former soccer star from completely letting go of the steering wheel. Even so, they were starting to weave dangerously all over the road, a bad idea when the _Koneko_, a few blocks away, was situated in a mostly residential neighborhood. They did not need to be pulled over by the cops.

"Ken!" he gasped. "Just. . .pay attention. . .to the road!"

"Road," Ken repeated numbly. "Right." And he did so with an intensity that would not have been amiss on the soccer field. Omi, despite the pain he was in, was worried about Ken. Why was his fellow Hunter falling apart at the seams like this? Getting hurt was standard procedure in their line of work, no matter the reason why. But there was a wild light in Ken's eyes that hinted at something more, something he did not know.

"Shit. . .knew he was gonna be trouble. . .But goddammit, why Omi?" the brunet was muttering. But at least he was back to paying attention to where the van was headed. Omi glanced out the window, mentally counting how many blocks they had left to go. Surely, with him wounded, Ken would go around to the back instead of parking the delivery vehicle in its usual daytime spot out front. . .that meant three more turns that he had to brace himself against, plus the bump-and-dip that marked the entrance to the alley itself.

The question was whether he could, or not. Ken had left off the seatbelt, not wanting to bring the black nylon strap across the smaller boy's injuries, but now Omi almost wished he had. There was a growing coldness spreading out from his middle, and it was sapping his strength, bleeding it away together with the darker red that now shone through the white gauze packed against his wound. Omi reached out, clumsily bracing his bloodied hand against the dash as they swerved around the first corner. His partner was still going way too fast, but it would take too much effort to argue about it any more.

The van's wheels left the ground when they reached the alley, Ken gunning the engine as home and safety came into view. They narrowly missed the dumpster, and thankfully, their neat-freak neighbor wasn't out picking up trash. In fact, the alley was blessedly clear.

Or. . .was it?

A shimmer of light caught Omi's eye, and owlishly, he blinked.

_Hallucinations_, he decided firmly. Definitely hallucinations. It had to be because of the strangely debilitating wound, one which, despite its appearance of being merely superficial, hurt like a bitch. Delusions brought about by blood loss and pain were the only answer as to why he had just witnessed two young men materializing behind the dumpster, faces half-hidden in the gloom cast by the neighboring building. So intent was he on convincing himself of his unreliable mind, he missed the fact that the van was parked, engine shut down and that Ken was already trying to drag him out as gently as possible, yet with the haste of someone being chased by the hounds of hell.

Reality came back with a vengeance and the red-hot knife someone was dragging from his belly to his brain, poking holes in the gray matter and thoughtfully mashing his eyeballs into gooey mush. He fell/stumbled into Ken's arms, his friend's squawk of surprise and panic was almost deafening, and it took a moment to register that the same two strangers who had appeared out of thin air (damn those hallucinations!) were approaching them. The taller of the two, dark auburn hair falling into his eyes, wore a kindly, yet worried face.

Omi did the only sensible thing left him under the circumstances; he buried his face in the front of Ken's soccer jersey.

A hand, warm and shaking with barely controlled tension cradled the back of his head, joining the arm locked protectively around Omi's thin middle. Ken's voice, cracking and going nearly falsetto on him, vibrated under the younger boy's cheek with false bravado. "Hey! Who the fuck are you!"

"Your friend's hurt. What happened to him?" The persuasive, low reply slid along Omi's nerves, promising help and comfort, even while another layer beneath made the tiny hairs on the nape of his neck stand at attention.

Without meaning to, Ken jostled him as they took a step back, and Omi whimpered again as that same burning agony raced along his nerves. His knees gave way and only Ken's reflexes caught him.

"He's bleeding badly," the man went on. Omi wondered vaguely what the other one was doing, keeping quiet all this while. And of course he knew he was bleeding badly. It was his blood after all. "I am a doctor. I can help."

Torn by indecision, Ken was shaking himself to pieces; Omi recognized the symptoms from past situations. Part of the hot tempered young man wanted to fight off the interlopers, and a part of him wanted to drop everything and take care of an injured teammate. Which meant that it was up to him to play the mediator, as usual. Clumsily, he tugged at a wadded up handful of shirt to get his friend's attention, and whispered, "Ken, say 'yes.' It was only a mugging. _Right_?"

Ken's embrace tightened. "You didn't say 'Ken-kun.' It's really, really bad, isn't it?"

"Yeah. . .I think so. _Gomen_, Ken-kun, but I think there was a toxin on that knife." A weird numbness that left every muscle flaccid, yet the pain intact, had reached Omi's legs, and he sagged, entirely dependent on his partner's greater strength.

He heard the sharp intake of breath, and without warning, he was lifted off his feet, cradled in arms that did not feel like Ken's, against a chest broader than the Hunter's. The deeper rumble within corresponded with the comforting, yet still unnerving voice, laced with what seemed to be genuine concern. "This looks more serious than I thought. Is there a place where I can properly examine him?"

Omi turned his head slightly, just enough to bring that face into his line of vision, and he was greeted by hazel-green eyes, with the faintest hint of crow's feet at the corners, and a gently smiling mouth. The man was quite. . .beautiful.

He tore his eyes away, disconcerted. Ken was practically vibrating with indecision, no matter that Omi had decided to trust these strangers, rocking nervously on the balls of his feet. Mind made up, Omi caught the stranger's eyes again, opening his mouth when a thought, wild and unconnected, struck him. "Are you a friend of Tsuzuki-san?" Yes, that sounded right. The both of them felt. . .the same. It was hard to describe but it felt something like a warm summer's day, gentle and peaceful yet at the same time, with dark clouds threatening on the horizon.

The hazel eyes widened in surprise, and the petit Weiss Hunter was treated to a rapid progression from normal, warm golden skin tones, to blanched pale, to a wildly embarrassed flush of red. It spread across the man's cheekbones, and the bridge of his nose, and Omi had a sudden, hair-brained urge to tell him that it looked adorable.

Just where had his mind gone to, anyway?

"Y- you know Asato?" the man stammered. From somewhere behind the handsome man's back came a snicker that rapidly turned into an all-out guffaw. A boy's face, graced by the brightest, palest blue eyes that Omi had ever seen appeared by his savior's shoulder, peeking over at him.

"Taka!" the apparition crowed, "They've meet Tsuzuki!"

Which this 'Taka' responded to with a "Dear Enma, Tatsumi is going to kill him!"

The owner of the pale, pale blue eyes pouted cutely. "Nah, he won't. Not when he said we could continue. Anyway, you're not looking too good. He's not looking too good, ne, Taka? He looks poisoned. Uh-huh. You can tell, judging by the clamminess of his skin and the color of the blood." The young, decidedly strange man nodded emphatically to prove his point. 'Taka' sighed.

"You can't tell if someone's poisoned by the blood color, Kyo," he replied patiently. "But we're wasting time. If you would kindly lead the way. . ."

Strangely enough, Omi felt a surge of sympathy for the odd boy. With his fine, black silk hair and soft, beardless jaw, he couldn't be all that much older… eighteen at most, which would put him in between the two youngest Weiss in age. Maybe that was what made Omi speak out in defense? His own nature as a researcher suggested helpfully that the brightness of the blood, and its refusal to clot _did_ indicate a foreign substance, most likely a poison. Either way, he opened his mouth, and said hesitantly, "But… he might be right. Progressive paralysis, loss of muscle tension, and I'm having some trouble getting a deep breath now. Except for the excessive bleeding, it's consistent with alkaloids like Tubocurarine. . . But that's injected, and this was a knife, so maybe…" His voice died away into a faint cough as Taka stared down at him. If there had been confusion in that steady gaze, it would have been okay, but the older man didn't seem at all alarmed by what Omi was saying.

Ken _gleeped_ and hastily cut his partner off. "This way. You can bring him into the shop's kitchen. We, uh, live at the flower shop. . .Oh, crap."

"Crap?" the odd boy parroted, a quirky smile on his face. "You better get a move on. Your friend will die soon if you don't," he pointed out helpfully.

"No, he won't," was 'Taka's certain reply, which warmed Omi somewhat. It was mildly unnerving, how easily this Kyo pronounced his imminent death.

But teasing or not, just the prospect of losing a team member dispelled the last of Ken's reluctance. He ushered them to the _Koneko_'s back door, fumbling for the keys with shaky fingers, constantly shooting glances back over his shoulder to make sure that they hadn't disappeared with their burden while he wasn't looking. Omi concentrated on keeping his mind focused on the here and now. His early morning encounter with the elusive Hisoka and the enigmatic Tsuzuki had left him with more questions than answers, and he was determined to glean more information from these two new arrivals. Sensing his scrutiny, the man carrying him looked down, still smiling gently. "My name is Takashi, and this here is my partner, Kyo. And you are. . .?"

"Omi," he rasped, and winced.

The door knob was wrenched out of the Ken's hand, and the athlete staggered back a couple of steps, nearly colliding with Takashi and his encumbrance. An uncharacteristically grim Yohji, autumn gold hair disheveled, was framed in the opening. His sunglasses were nowhere to be found, and the hard green eyes so revealed slid from one to another of the shocked tableau.

They froze when they lit on his smallest teammate, cradled in a stranger's embrace, then Yohji was past Ken, long fingered hands running with quick grace over the boy's features as he exclaimed, "Shit! Omi, what happened?"

Before the younger Hunter could answer, Ken managed to garble out, "M- mugger. At the mall. B- but-- " Yohji's attention flickered rapidly between his teammates, assessing the situation. A rueful, open smile snapped into place on his face and he was reaching out.

"Ah, so sorry. Here, let me take him from you. It's good of you to see him home, but-- "

Omi grabbed hold of the older blond's hand, blood slicking his grip. When he had the man's attention, he shook his head firmly. He wasn't about to let these two get away, not now. Not until he had some satisfactory answers. "He can help," Omi said in reply to Yohji's wary look. "He's a doctor. I've been poisoned as well."

At the word 'poisoned', Yohji flinched imperceptibly, but even before he could open his mouth to argue, that strange boy, Kyo, peered over Takashi's shoulder, grinning brightly.

"Hi!"

It was a lucky thing Omi kept his eyes trained on the former P.I. or he would have missed the show. Instead, he saw firsthand the way the man's face drained of color, brilliant green eyes widening to show white all around, and his mouth falling open quite unattractively; a rare occurrence for the playboy. Puzzled, Omi frowned at the other boy's cheery features. There was a certain sense that he ought to recognize that face from somewhere, but with everything beginning to tilt sideways, the connection escaped him.

"_B-bishounen_!" Yohji stammered. Obviously, remembering wasn't a problem for the team's most sociable member. And then, as the identity of the one carrying Omi sank in, the older Hunter underwent yet another metamorphosis, this one turning his body language still and dangerous. "How did you two get here?"

The low timbre of the tall blond's last question snapped Ken around on instant alert. Omi's sluggish heartbeat tried to leap into the same heightened state, but it faltered and he wheezed painfully. The drug coursing through him had progressed from disabling his voluntary muscle systems, and was moving on to those that he had less control over, but that were even more vital to the slight boy's continued existence. While Yohji and Ken wasted time facing off against Takashi and Kyo, his ability to drag air into his tortured lungs would be the next thing to go. He had to at least try to stop them, whatever their differences might be. "Y-Yohji. . .a. . .asphyxi. . ." he gasped, even that small effort making dark spots dance before his eyes.

Takashi's attention shifted from the senior Hunter to the increasingly limp weight in his arms. " 'Asphyxiation?' " he demanded urgently. Omi managed a faint movement that would have to pass for a nod of agreement, and the stranger focused on Yohji. "Yes, that was us at the club the other night. We can explain, but not right now. Do you know how to do artificial respiration? If what he's been hit with is a neuromuscular blocker, like Tubocurarine, an overdose causes heart arrhythmia and also requires the patient to be ventilated because the muscles around the chest wall cease to be able to move."

Kyo's odd sing-song voice chimed in with "Water, water, every where, and not a drop to drink. . .Oops, I mean air."

Frankly, Omi figured he could have done with out that visual, thank you very much, but it served to make Yohji's mind up and to spur the older Hunter into action. The wire man shot the indecisive soccer player a sharp glance, waving him toward the half-open hallway door. "Hey, Kenken. Go tell Aya that the two guys I told him about Saturday night have come to pay us a visit." Turning a crooked smile with the vestiges of his normal charm on Takashi, he gestured gallantly for the supposed doctor to precede him.

As the growing darkness claimed him, Omi had just enough time left to think, _Oh, kuso. . . Somebody else's found out who we are. . ._

* * *

**Mint** - Protection from illness; warmth of feeling; virtueNeuromuscular Blocking Agents: This best known member of this family of alkoloid drugs is curare, but there are many modern variants in every day use as a surgical aide in situations where it is important that the patient not move (such as during a tracheotomy), or when a fractured bone must be set. They are also used to prevent muscular convulsions. 

For your reading pleasure:

www . crnasomeday. com/pharmpages /chapseventeenpharm. htm

www . tubocurarinechloride. html

www . botgard.ucla. edu/html/botanytextbooks /economicbotany/ Curare/

(remove spaces in between)


	13. Monozuki 13: Kyo and Hypericum

**Monozuki**** – **_An Idle Curiosity_

_A Weiss Kreuz/Yami no Matsuei crossover._

**By Kelly**

**Monozuki**** 13: Kyo and Hypericum**

* * *

**Review replies:**

**MikaSamu: **Thank you; it's always gratifying when a reader points out something they like, which is the result of diligent research to make a story believable.

**Literary Eagle: **And I love Yohji's reaction too (giggles). Bet he never expected to find his pretty boys at the kitchen door.

**RuByMoOn17: **Muraki's coming soon. . .probably. We got sidetracked, Lisa and I. . .to where? Ah, that will be revealed soon.

**Amakurikara: **Get excited again coz here comes the latest chapter!

**Ayjayaj: **Of course I remember you (grin). So you succumbed and became a member eh? I wish you luck – you'll need it, dealing with this site (glares at ff . net).

* * *

**Note: **To non-Kyo fans – bear with me. I have an unhealthy obsession with him. Lisa can attest to that. But do keep in mind that _Monozuki_, though it was originally intended as a sort-of character study, later evolved to being the catalyst that enabled Kyo to cope with the stress of the Death Seal. Of course, we now have entirely new goals we're striving to achieve. . .damn plot bunnies.

* * *

It amused Kyo terribly when the handsome blond gestured that he follow Takashi inside, allowing for the former P.I. to be the last one in. There was an impatient cough from behind him; Kyo threw a quick grin over his shoulder, only to be answered by narrow, sharp green eyes. He put a hand over his heart in mock hurt.

"What, you don't want to seduce me anymore now?" he pouted.

Disappointingly, that failed to provoke the older man in quite the way he had hoped, as the Weiss' expression turned angry. "Listen, you guys had better have a damned good explanation for turning up here--"

"Kyo!"

The sharp warning in that familiar tone put an abrupt halt to Kyo's intended baiting. He spun around, light and fast on his feet, peripherally aware that the assassin he showed his back to assumed a ready stance but that too, he ignored. He knew better than to dally when Takashi used that tone. Especially when an impatient/worried frown was already creasing his love's forehead, and Takashi needed someone to turn the doorknob for him.

The metal was cool in his hand, turning easily as he shot an apologetic smile to his partner. The latch clicked, the door swung open, but as he shuffled aside to let Takashi enter, something hard, fast, invisible and completely _wrong_ hit him like a sledgehammer.

Gasping, Kyo stumbled, almost losing his footing when Takashi backed rapidly into him and made it a foregone conclusion. With a yelp, Kyo grabbed his partner around the waist and in return, was steadied by strong arms encircling him from behind.

The crazed conga line jammed up the doorway, complete with muffled curses from Kyo who found himself uncomfortably sandwiched between his husband (whose weight was not helped by the injured boy he carried), and the blond, former P.I. who took advantage of their proximity to feel him up.

"Stop that!" He threw an indignant glare behind his shoulder.

The green eyes were coolly amused. "Just making sure you're alright," the assassin answered smoothly.

"Whatever," Kyo grunted irritably. It was such a blatant lie that he almost felt like calling it out. His earlier mood of cheer was deteriorating rapidly, not helped by the stink of death and hatred that had hit him the instant he set foot in the shop house. "Taka? What the hell is it?"

Takashi shook himself, adjusting the burden he was carrying. He jutted out his chin, pointing within and to their right. "Check that out for yourself, Kyo. I need to treat this one fast. Is there somewhere more comfortable I can put him?" he asked someone inside.

Craning his head over Takashi's shoulder, Kyo could make out the redhead he had seen yesterday. What was his name again? Ah, Fujimiya Aya/Ran. The suspicion evident on those pale features made Kudoh's positively welcoming.

"He's a doctor, Aya. We should let him take a look at Omi," said Kudoh from behind him. The tall swordsman bristled but apparently the senior Hunter's willingness to let them in, as well as the fact that the little assassin, Omi, had a death grip on his husband's jacket was enough to make him dip his head and gesture them in.

"Upstairs," was the clipped reply. "Do you need anything else?"

Takashi hurried in, barely taking the time to take off his shoes by the genkan, saying, "A first aid kit, if you have one. Isopropyl alcohol, and latex gloves if you use them in the shop. . .?"

The rest of the instructions faded away as the pair of them disappeared up a staircase located in the hallway beyond the kitchen. A prod from Kudoh made Kyo scowl, but he obediently came in, taking off his own shoes and claiming the fuzzy blue house slippers. They looked quite comfortable. Already he had lost interest in the slight boy carried by his husband, despite the fact that he had sensed almost the same undercurrent of malice permeating the wound which even now coated the kitchen like stubborn grease. Besides, Takashi would take care of whatever it was that ailed the little assassin.

Hands clasped safely behind his back, Kyo shuffled cautiously further into the kitchen, heading for the now apparent source of the stink that was still offending his nose and senses something awful. And it wasn't just the dried blood and gore either. The construct so artistically arranged on the kitchen table (and it can't be anything but; the funny lines and squiggles, complete with a salutation to Agaliarept, General of the Second Legion of Makai's army, was a dead giveaway, pardon the pun) assaulted him on both the physical and spiritual level. All Shinigami were sensitive to the negative vibrations of death, what with them being denizens of the Land of the Dead themselves. But there was death, and there was _death._

This particular death belonged quite firmly in the second category.

"So which evil magician did you guys offend?" he asked distractedly over his shoulder, eyes never leaving the defaced table. The flowers, a type of lily he didn't recognise and mock orange blossoms only added a certain sick twist that briefly churned his stomach. Kyo scowled again. Whoever the guy was, he'd kick his butt just for tainting his preference for lilies, the sick bastard.

"Magician?" the other Hunter, a Hidaka Ken, repeated doubtfully from the hallway outside. "What sort of crack are y—holy shit, Yohji! Who the hell did this!"

Kyo nodded to himself. Yes, it's amazing what you can overlook when you're already highly strung from tension. There was a quiet sigh from behind.

"We don't know. I was minding the store and when I went back here for a drink, I found the kitchen already like. . .this."

The dark haired Shinigami hummed softly. Kudoh was lying. Or at least, not telling the entire truth. He could tell. He could also tell that Hidaka knew as well, or perhaps, these assassins had secret hand signals or some such and even now, Kudoh was telling his team mate the entire story behind his back.

"Look, whoever you are. . .this is just the work of some sick psycho, nothing more. Someone who wanted to rile us up and- "

"Shush," he said absently, earning a splutter from Hidaka.

"Who the hell are these people, Yohji?" was Hidaka's furious whisper. "You know them?"

"Met them at a club last night," Kudoh replied in a strained voice. "I didn't expect to see them again, truthfully."

"So we're just going to stand by and do nothing! If Ma- "

"Ken! Omi is hurt. You know as well as I do that we can't take him to the hospital. Besides, I have questions of my own to ask them. I for one, do _not _believe in coincidences."

"We are compromising ourselves! Instead of just- "

The rest Kyo tuned out. The rather macabre spell construct held his attention fully, concentration sharpening his mind and, for now, it pushed the fog that clouded his thoughts to the back. Crouching so that he was eyelevel with the tabletop, Kyo still refused to touch the thing directly, caution warning him that there was more to this than what it appeared to be. Slowly, as precise and careful as Takashi was with a scalpel, Kyo reached out with his power, and _tugged_.

Air came alive, showing itself in bright, lacy patterns with all the colors of the rainbow and beyond; colors that no human words could describe. All living things left imprints; humans carried with them a gold-amber sort of charge, a veritable static field whose intensity was in proportion with the person's presence, so to speak. Shinigami were silvery-grey, their aura all the brighter especially in the Land of the Dead. But besides life, magic left its mark as well; colorful squiggles and lines and patterns of matter and energy ordered into shape for specific purposes.

This construct of dead cat and flowers left an imprint that stole Kyo's breath away.

The feline had died excruciatingly slow; there was a greasy, bluish black miasma hanging over the table, roiling like oil scum stirred fretfully. Shot through it were sickly strands of red, black and oddly enough, silver. The twisted net of strings enveloped the haze of animal despair and hurt, containing it within. But there was something strange about the entire thing. The spell looked to be. . .waiting?

Kyo's eyes narrowed. Where was it? Where was. . . ah! He hooked an invisible filament of charged air, whispered a furious prayer of protection and stasis and with a hurried entreaty to Enma, he pulled.

Sparks leapt from gored tabby to greasy fog. Instead of disappearing, the fireflies of sick light hung frozen in the air between, outlining a pattern which he read with growing uneasiness.

Someone gasped. "What the fuck. . .?"

He turned to the two assassins in surprise. "You can see it?"

Both Kudoh and Hidaka looked rather sick themselves and to Kyo's astonishment, their eyes were fixed not on the cat itself, but rather, a few feet above it.

"Is that some sort of. . .poisonous gas?" Kudoh asked doubtfully. "Timed release maybe? It sure wasn't there earlier, but. . .it's not. . .moving."

"And what's with the light show?" Hidaka added.

Huh. They _were _highly spiritual. Enma's decision seemed to make more sense now, given the fact that these two humans could see the result of his spell unveiling. Kyo turned his attention back to the revealed curse.

"That, my friend, is very bad news," he announced thoughtfully. "Someone out there wishes you ill."

"We can _tell_."

Kyo resisted the urge to stick his tongue out at the blond.

He went on to explain, "This curse is one of malicious intent. He was obviously aiming f—"

Hidaka interrupted him. "Wait a damn minute. Did you say 'curse'?" he demanded.

The Shinigami rocked back on his heels, arms hanging over his knees. "Yes, I did," he replied impatiently.

"Curse as in magic? Like. . .abracadabra and all that shit?"

"I prefer a good Sanskrit incantation myself but yes, magic and all that 'shit'," Kyo answered wryly, quotation marks practically hanging in the air. The two Hunters exchanged looks; Hidaka with plain scepticism and Kudoh, strangely inscrutable.

"Listen," Hidaka started slowly, acting for all the world as though he was trying to explain a difficult concept to particularly dim-witted child. "Magic doesn't exist. Everyone knows that. This is just. . ." he waved vaguely in the dark cloud's direction, "Just some sick, psycho stuff someone pulled on us. Weird scribbles and a dead cat do not a magic spell make."

Kyo opted for blandness. "Really? I didn't know. Tell me, just _what _exactly did Eszett wanted to do to your team mate's sister again?"

Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say. Faster than he could have thought possible, Kyo found himself flying back through the air, making the acquaintance of a very hard wall.

"Ow," he complained petulantly. "That hurts, you idiot!"

Hidaka snarled in his face, "How did you find out about Eszett and Aya-chan? Who do you work for! What are you doing here!"

"Ken! Ken-kun!" Kudoh pulled Hidaka's arm in a vain attempt to make his team mate let go of the chokehold he held the increasingly irate Kyo in. "Ken, calm down! We're not going to get any answers like this!"

The young Shinigami took matters in his own hands. Eyes narrowing, Kyo said, quite distinctly despite Hidaka's rather suffocating grip, "Let go."

There was a flash of actinic light, painfully bright, leaping out from him to Hidaka, and the brown-haired assassin did just that; he let go, falling back with a yelp of surprise. Stumbling, he was quickly caught by Kudoh, the both of them staring at Kyo as though he had grown two heads.

Kyo sniffed, straightening his shirt and fixing his jacket irritably. "This was a gift from Takashi, you jerk," he huffed. "I'd appreciate not being manhandled, gentlemen, thank you very much."

Wearily, Kudoh said, "Kenken, whatever you were about to say, shut up. And you, whoever the hell you are, lay off the cute act and fix that goddammed mess on the table."

The young Shinigami clucked his tongue. "My cuteness is not an act. It is entirely natural, as is my hair color while, I doubt I can say the same for yours."

Slanted green eyes narrowed. "Ha. Ha."

"Ah, see? We're getting along so well already!" Kyo clapped delightedly. "I knew you were a nice guy underneath all that leather."

"Yohji!"

"Stop that!"

Shrugging affably as order was restored, Kyo offered them a purely benign smile, at odds with his earlier flare of temper."Now, about that curse. Can't do anything about it," he told them blandly, wandering over to the fridge, taking in the post-it notes, cute magnets and old recipes cut out from magazines. He opened the brushed steel-plated door, peering inside distractedly. "Standard procedure; I cannot dispel what is obviously a ritualised magic. Not until myself and my partner have recorded its structure, the spell's target and if possible, the spell's maker. Paperwork," he added, voice muffled as he thoughtfully perused the contents of the fridge, "is a bitch. Tatsumi will have our heads if we don't do things according to procedure."

He turned to face his rather bemused audience. "What kind of kitchen," he said, quite severely, "does not have any chocolate ice cream and chocolate sauce?"

* * *

**Hypericum**** (coffee beans): **Animosity

**Agaliarept**** - **A Grand General of Hell, commander of the second legion and possessed of the power to discover all secrets. He commands Buer, Guseyn, and Botis.

And for some giggles concerning the hierarchy of demons:

www. meta- religion. com / Esoterism / Demonology / who is who. htm

and

http/ athenaeum. asiya. org / Grand Grimoire. pdf


	14. Monozuki 14: Aya and Blue Violets

**Monozuki**** – **_An Idle Curiosity_

_A Weiss Kreuz/Yami no Matsuei crossover._

**Monozuki**** 14 – Aya and Blue Violets**

**By Lisa**

* * *

No matter that the strange man claimed to be a doctor, and that by the bluish tint Omi's lips he desperately needed one; and no matter that the delicate little assassin had said to allow it, and Aya trusted the boy's judgement as much as it was in his admittedly suspicious nature to trust anyone's; it still all came down to his gut saying: _This guy doesn't feel right…_

Aya's gut was never wrong.

Following close behind, Aya had a good opportunity to watch the interloper move, and if he was any judge of his opponents, this one would be dangerous to fight. The dove-gray suit he wore with easy grace was tailored to not hamper anything short of the most extreme in martial arts maneuvers. And the newcomer was young, and fit too, more so than could be accounted for by a wealthy doctor's access to a gym, or a fanaticism with golf. On the one hand, the auburn haired man was weighed down by the slight body cradled with admitted care in his arms, but on the other, he was above Aya in the gravity well of the staircase. It would be entirely too easy to toss the youngest Weiss, and while Abyssinian was off balance trying to save him, to lash out at the red headed Hunter and kick him backward down the stairs.

Eyes narrowed thoughtfully, Aya had to admit that if he were in the other man's position, and intended harm, that that was what he would do.

Omi's rescuer was still listing off supplies that he needed, continuing the recitation he had begun downstairs. Aya forced himself to focus less on the warm, deceptive tone, and more the words themselves. "… if you don't have isopropyl alcohol, we can make up a solution with providone iodine."

"Upstairs." The red head snarled impatiently. Would the man never simply _shut up_? They reached the top step, and stopped, warily eyeing one another. The doctor's kindly mouth tightened, and there was a hint of steel in the hazel depths, but he made no overtly threatening gestures. Perhaps it was this supposed doctor's intent to get the Kritiker team off balance? Worming his way into their confidences by treating the injured boy would certainly be one way to do so.

Aya resolved to not let his guard down, even should the offer of aid for his littlest partner prove to be in good faith.

It was with some chagrin that Aya realized that the stranger was staring at him quizzically, one eyebrow raised in silent interrogation, and had been for at least a minute. Why the hell was he zoning out? A blush rose to the swordsman's cheeks and he shoved past the man angrily, wrenching open the door to the shared living room. It banged into the wall with unnecessary violence and the blush deepened till it clashed with his scarlet hair, forcing Aya to busy himself with pushing aside their cluttered coffee table and tossing the mismatched floor cushions into the corner.

"Ah, good thinking." the doctor said, kneeling to lay his limp burden carefully onto the cleared floor. He seemed unaware that dark stains marred the front of his gray jacket. "Do you know how to do CPR, by any chance?"

"Yes." snapped Aya curtly. He wasn't about to tell this unknown in a nice suit that a lifetime ago he had spent months earning a life guard's certification in hope of a summer job at a resort. Hopes died too easily, and it was no one's business what Ran's might have been. Least of all a potential enemy's. But, he told himself, there was nothing wrong with using skills from his past life if it would save Omi. Crouching on the far side of his too still partner, Aya spared the man a glare and rummaged in his pocket. There was a small, utilitarian knife, left there from opening a bag of sphagnum moss, and Aya hesitated only long enough to think, _Omi's going to kill me for this…_ before he slit open the front of the boy's ruined tee-shirt. It was too bad that the kid had picked today of all days to wear a favorite: his L'Arc en Ciel shirt from their American tour. But better the shirt than Bombay's life, he reasoned uneasily.

Although, it might not be too bad of an idea to go online later and see if he could locate a replacement.

The doctor apparently misinterpreted his worried frown, shooting Aya a quick smile and remarking gently, "Your friend's strong, and in excellent health; I'm sure he'll be all right." Long, agile fingers raced across Omi's bloodied chest as it laboriously rose and fell with each shuddering breath. For the moment, the man avoided the saturated bandages, leaning down to listen to the sound of the boy's lungs, then pressing fingertips lightly to his carotid artery. "Hmm…" he murmured, "Could be better, but it could be a lot worse, too. Pulse isn't as strong as I'd like, but it's steady. His lungs are clear, but he's having a lot of difficulty inhaling… Could be a neuromuscular blocker, at that." The hands paused, resting, and then the man took a deep breath. "Okay. Let's check that wound, shall we?"

Gingerly, the deft fingers peeled tape from the red streaked skin, leaving white rectangles that seemed weirdly out of place. As he folded back the soaked gauze, fresh blood welled sluggishly from a wound that Aya instinctively knew was all wrong; it was only a shallow slice, barely deep enough to separate the tough strands of muscle in Omi's abdomen, and certainly no where near life threatening. Yet, the oozing flow refused to _stop_. Urgently, he demanded, "What's making it do that? I've never heard of-- "

"Damn!" the other man hissed. Trying to apply pressure, his fingers skidded across the darkly glistening surface. Omi gave a final, painful wheeze and stopped breathing.

Training kicked in, and Aya quickly tilted the boy's chin up, ensuring that his airways were clear. But when the moment came to seal his own mouth to Omi's, he balked, and had to mentally slap himself. _This is **not** a kiss!_ Aya thought frantically. Certainly not with a child his sister Aya's age. The chilly flesh was unresponsive under his lips, and hardly felt alive any more. A surge of revulsion at the thought that he might be in such an intimate position with a corpse nearly made Aya gag, but grimly he swallowed the disturbing idea back down to where it deserved to be, deep in some recess of his subconscious. Just as he refused to think of his little teammate in a sexual way, he wouldn't think of Omi as dead, because the teenager wasn't. He couldn't be. The boy had never had a chance to really live his life, and the fact that neither had any of the rest of them was completely beside the point. Aya just wasn't going to accept Omi as dead.

The standard rhythm of breath and count steadied Abyssinian's free-falling mind. He had found his partner's pulse with shaking fingers, and that meant that there was no need to do compressions. That knowledge freed a tiny portion of his brain to observe the doctor working beside him with feverish speed, and the assassin had to admit that at least the man seemed to have some idea what to do.

Or, so he thought until the handsome stranger sat back on his heels, and pressed both hands flat to the boy's lean stomach and began to chant. _A Buddhist prayer!_Dumbfounded, Aya lost the rhythm, and had to force himself to pay attention, dammit, to what was really important. Not to some deluded idiot who wanted to pray at a critical moment like this.

And around whose hands a pale, rosy-gold light was gathering, like a swarm of fireflies made out of pure sunlight.

The warm light gleamed on the sweat sticking strands of auburn hair to the doctor's forehead, casting odd shadows under his chin and along the plane of high cheekbones that became too prominent. For the barest second, Aya thought that the skull beneath the skin was clearly visible, but then he blinked and all there was were blood smeared fingers locked into a complex mudra.

Omi sputtered, choked, and took a breath on his own.

Index and forefinger outstretched together brushed against the man's now soundlessly moving lips, then swept out in a graceful arc. Aya blinked, caught by a surreal double image of wide, white silk sleeves stitched with scarlet thread that fluttered in unseen breezes. Instincts that he wasn't even aware of having somehow recognized the gesture and propelled the assassin backward into a defensive crouch. Dammit, he couldn't explain it, but Aya knew beyond a shadow of any doubt, that the _thing_ in front of him wasn't human.

The man's hazel eyes were fixed with single minded intensity on the prone boy, so he might have missed the way Aya's expression slipped into feral fury, but some innate sixth sense warned him when the assassin leapt, utility knife aimed with unerring accuracy for his throat. He completed the spell, or what ever the Hell it was, laying the two fingers against Omi's wound, even as he was dodging. The part of Aya that made him so deadly in a melee had already anticipated that, and his knee was in position to block while his free hand slammed the other backwards, flat onto the floor. Mouth opening to speak, all the doctor managed to get out was a pained _woof!_ as the air left his lungs.

Kneeling astride his opponent, Aya flipped the knife, reversing it in his grip for a downward slash. It was too bad that the short, triangular blade wouldn't allow him to stab to any depth, but the box cutter's blade was razor sharp and would make short work out of the stranger's neck. Focused, Aya's hot violet gaze zeroed in on the point where the carotid was most vulnerable, just where the faint beat of a pulse was visible. He was peripherally aware of Omi, struggling to sit up, and of the fainter sounds of a ruckus from below, but they were completely unimportant at that instant.

Hazel eyes widened in shock, as the man's splayed hand rose in mute protest. Aya ignored the motion as too little, too late to interfere with his attack, but then he found himself flying, ass over tea kettle and headed for the living room's far wall. Twisting in mid-air like his feline namesake, Abyssinian managed to tuck his shoulder and roll so that it was his hip rather than his head that took the brunt of the impact. But dammit, it still hurt like a bitch. He was back upright, feet drawn under him in a crouch and ready to spring before the enemy could even flounder into a seated position.

Omi flailed his way to his knees, arms outstretched like a goalie trying to block a score, and screamed "Aya! _Stop!_"

Aya stopped.

Oh, not completely; his trained mind was still busy picking out spots that the opposition was failing to protect adequately, and running through strategies for each, but he would allow his miraculously recovered teammate one chance to talk him out of finishing that inhuman man off. _Then_ his ass was grass.

The stranger backed away warily, dabbing at a shallow cut that trailed a thin thread of crimson down his neck, and into his ruined shirt collar. Even as Aya watched, it sealed itself shut and vanished, leaving only the bloody evidence behind to prove that it had ever existed. Abyssinian gave an involuntary start in wordless protest – _Cuts did not **do** that!_ – and a faint, vengeful smirk flitted across his intended quarry's handsome face. Omi missed that part of the show, being as his presumed savior was behind his back, but his puzzled frown spoke volumes to his confusion over Aya's reactions.

"What's going on here?" asked the smallest Hunter slowly.

Aya ignored the question, addressing a growled "Schwartz?" to the interloper, instead.

The man shook his head. "No, we're not from Schwartz. As a matter of fact, we're not here to fight you, at all. We'd rather work with you, since it appears that we have a common enemy."

Omi wobbled, and sat down shakily on the floor. "Oh, gods… another team. You guys are another team."

"Er… yes, as it happens, we are." A thud and a crash from below distracted the man, and Aya tensed at the opportunity that the shift in attention provided. Omi's quick, slicing gesture forestalled his impulse to leap, however, and he subsided with ill humor. A quick glance up by his opponent told Aya that the doctor had caught the silent exchange. The man coughed, clearing his throat, and said quietly, "We are _not_ your enemies, no matter what you may think just now. The one who left that abomination in your kitchen, and who wounded your partner, _he's_ the one you have to watch out for. If he's targeting you, you're going to _need_ our help."

Before Aya could open his mouth to growl 'No!' Omi waved him to silence and demanded rapidly, "Takashi-san, how can you know that it's the same person? We haven't told you anything about the man who attacked me at the mall. I barely even saw him. And what about our kitchen?"

A smile twitched at the corners of Takashi's mouth when the small blond had to pause for a breath. "Your injury was caused by a knife bearing a curse. Something similar – I didn't stop to examine it – was left in your kitchen downstairs. My partner, Kyo, is dealing with it. The reason that I believe them to be the work of the same man is that they feel as if they have the same psychic signature."

"I knew it!" the furious red head burst out. "You are like Schwartz!"

"What?" Omi twisted about, staring at his older partner in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"Ask him what happened to the cut I gave him." Aya ground out. "Ask him."

"Nani? Takashi-san… what cut? What happened while I was unconscious?" Omi's husky voice was tremulous, and the boy's wide, worried eyes sent a twist of doubt though Abyssinian's omniscient gut. Perhaps pushing the injured boy was not a good idea?

That the same thought was in his late opponent's mind was apparent from the way he blanched and hastily said, "It was just a scratch, Omi-kun. But your friend is right; we do have some unusual abilities. Nothing like the Schwartz people, but fast healing is among them. All of us can do that, just as all of us have at least a little ability in shaping the forces that you would call magic. The wound you sustained – normally, it would be a very minor thing – yet it bled excessively, and the effects of the drug used were extreme, were they not?"

"Y- yes…" Hesitantly, Omi nodded. "You're right. The pain is gone, and I can feel my legs again. And the bleeding has completely stopped."

"That's because I broke the curse on it. Fortunately, it was not a very complex one, or I might not have managed it in time. Because, as a doctor, I can assure you that no normal healing art would have been enough to save you."

At the earnest sincerity of those words, Aya felt his blood run cold. Had they really been that close to losing their littlest member? The memory of corpse-cold lips against his assured him that yes, whatever had been at the root of the encounter at the mall, it had nearly been fatal. He might not believe this talk about magic, but death he understood. The muscles along his jaw bunched in anger and rage narrowed his violet eyes; someone was going to pay for hurting the kid like that.

"Oh… And you think the spell was cast by the same person that you're investigating?" the petit blond asked in complete seriousness.

Takashi coughed. "I meant to ask you… You mentioned Tsuzuki. How did you come to meet him?"

Omi blushed uncomfortably. "Ah, you see, he came by to check up on me, the night before last, and stayed for pancakes."

"Pancakes?" Both Aya and Takashi shouted. They exchanged incredulous looks over the boy's head. Aya had a fleeting thought that the way things were going lately, he ought not to be surprised that there seemed to be something that they agreed upon… but really, Omi feeding pancakes to a member of an unknown team was a bit much. Especially as it explained why there had been none left when Aya had come down for breakfast, and dammit, he _liked_ pancakes. With butter, and raspberry syrup. And here Omi had fed them to someone else.

Kneeling there on the floor, trembling with delayed reaction from blood loss and exhaustion, drying flakes of rust peeling from a childishly smooth chest within the remains of a tee-shirt that hung like a ragged vest from his shoulders, Omi should have looked anything but impressive. Yet, somehow, he managed to draw himself up and say with dignity, "It was an excellent opportunity to gather information. Particularly seeing as _someone_ didn't believe me when I said I saw that boy, Hisoka-kun, flying."

Choking, Takashi sputtered, "F- flying? 'S- 'Soka-chan? Oh… Tatsumi will-- "

Omi quelled him with an annoyed glare that rivaled a Fujimiya Special, before turning that self-same, narrow-eyed laser-beam on Aya. Carefully, clearly, he bit out each word: "It's okay if _you_ suggest that they have Schwartz-like abilities, but when I told you about him flying, you didn't believe me. Even though we've both seen that boy, Nagi-kun, do it. Now, why do you suppose that is? Hm?"

Aya briefly entertained thoughts of abandoning his young partner with the representative of the rival team, and taking his chances with Yohji and Ken, downstairs. After all, they were only up against one weird teenager, and there was safety in numbers. But in the end, he gave the idea up as cowardly and, taking a deep breath, did the impossible, saying "Sumimasen, Omi-kun. You were right. I should have listened to you."

A pleased look of shock lit the blond assassin's features, closely followed by a sunny grin. "Domo arigato, Aya-kun!" he crowed, throwing himself bodily into the older Hunter's arms and hugging him fiercely. Consternation gave way to resignation as Aya carefully returned the embrace.

"Do itashimashite, Omi. I guess I should say it more often." he sighed. From the safety of the other side of the room, Takashi snickered.

* * *

**To be continued**

* * *

**Violet (blue)** - Watchfulness; faithfulness;

**To all Weiss Kreuz fans: **Go to this site (remove spaces) www .hopeforlorn . net for all your WK needs. Seriously.

**Note: **Erm. The chapter is excessively late. Er. . .sorry? Me and Lisa got caught up in a Monozuki lemon (you read that right folks!) and an addictive RPG. I swear, my life is practically revolving around the RPG.

. . .that's not a good thing to hear, update-wise, is it?

Review. You know you want to.


	15. Monozuki 15: Omi and Cosmos

**Monozuki**** – **_An Idle Curiosity_

_A Weiss Kreuz/Yami no Matsuei crossover._

**Monozuki**** 15 – Omi and Cosmos**

**By Kelly and Lisa**

* * *

Impromptu hugs and a blushing Abyssinian aside, there was still the very small matter of a stranger in the living room with them. Lifesaver or not, this man claimed knowledge of the workings of Weiss, and possibly Kritiker as well. Tsuzuki, even with a mouthful of pancakes, had deflected queries with the ease of a seasoned operative and when a chance-heard noise from the upper floors had had Omi distracted, the next thing he knew, the handsome, violet-eyed stranger had gone.

Omi sure as hell wasn't going to let a new source of information slip out of his hands this time.

"Takashi-san," he started and both Takashi and Abyssinian stiffened, glancing over at him and looking almost guilty. Well, Aya looked guilty. Takashi had let slip a small smirk before covering it with an affable smile. The hacker restrained a sigh. Great, just what he needed. Antagonism from Weiss' field leader even before they interrogated the man. "We need to talk," the child-like blond said bluntly and if he thought to throw the man off, he was disappointed. The doctor simply dipped his head in acknowledgement.

"I agree. Certain. . ." Takashi hesitated, "issues have come to light and our superiors have instructed us to make contact with your team. Considering your own injuries and the defilement of your kitchen, we seem to have the same problem."

Even as Bombay nodded, smile pleasant and deep blue eyes wide and almost innocent-looking, his mind processed the few clues he garnered. Takashi had used the term 'superiors.' Which supported his theory that Tsuzuki and the others were from an organization, perhaps one which operated along similar lines as Kritiker. That Tsuzuki had mentioned dropping off any anonymous tip with the Tokyo police was evidence of a matching… devotion to justice. Even if the problems that Weiss faced often stemmed from corrupt public servants. And if Takashi was correct, that they were chasing the same man who could incapacitate him so easily, then. . .well, the enemy of my enemy. . .

"Shall we?" he asked brightly, ignoring the rather incongruous image of playing the good host with his torn and bloodied t-shirt.

He felt Aya tense marginally beside him when Takashi cocked his head to the side, eyes sliding out of focus. "Ah," Takashi murmured. "We're just in time, I think. Any longer and I fear your team members are going to disembowel my partner." There was a genuine grin on his face so Omi doubted it would really come to that. He hoped. He really didn't want to explain to Birman how a dead teen came to be in their kitchen. It would be bad enough to explain whatever it was that _had_ happened.

The reluctance in how Aya's hand briefly clung to Omi's elbow before allowing his younger companion to head for the stairs under his own power suggested that a number of things had occurred while Omi was out of it. The small blond sighed, while still keeping a bright smile on his lips. It would be so great if there were a way to review the footage from the mini-cam mounted in the light fixture overhead, but another crash, and the ominous timbre of Ken's yowl from below warned the hacker that delaying might not be a good idea, after all.

Rising to their feet, the two men stared warily as the shorter boy between them huffed impatiently. Honestly! What was wrong with them? Superficially, they were much of a type: both tall and slim, with the kind of graceful movements that went with being comfortable and confident in their own bodies. Takashi's neatly trimmed hair was shades lighter and brighter than Aya's wine red, but the colors suited both of them, as did the guileless hazel eyes of the one, and the suspicious, darkened violet of the other.

It just wasn't fair that the two handsomest men that Omi had had the pleasure of laying eyes on were determined to fight like preschoolers over a favorite toy.

Little Bombay stilled.

Did he just think of Aya as _attractive?_

Did he just refer to himself as a _toy?_

He nodded decisively. It must have been the amplified neuromuscular blocker. That could explain the strange visions he'd been having and the fact that his mind had sunk to the gutter when he wasn't looking. Yes, it had to be.

Mind made up, Omi shooed both men out of the living room and down the stairs, briskly ignoring the annoyed glance Abyssinian sent his way. If it were left to the strung-out swordsman, they'd be cleaning the living room floor of blood and entrails. And he still needed answers, dammit.

To Omi's immediate surprise, his own redhead paused at the top of the stairs, waiting for some unfathomable reason for the wobbling teen to join him. His astonishment grew even greater when a sword-hardened hand grasped the boy's biceps to steady him on the steep stairs.

How... weird. Aya didn't like to touch, or be touched. And here he was, voluntarily...?

Omi shook his head slightly, more to dislodge the strange notions that had taken residence than in actual negation. Later. He would think about Aya's behavior later.

They entered the kitchen to find Yohji physically restraining a furious Ken, while the strange kid, Kyo, watched with avid amusement. The black haired boy looked up at their entrance, face visibly brightening.

"Taka!" the boy said happily, bounding over to his partner with puppyish eagerness. The wide smile, eyes of a palest blue and the nervous energy that practically gushed out clicked together in Omi's head. He jerked to a stop. Kyo was the one who had come into the shop the other day! That would make the older man with glasses who came by to collect him a colleague as well?

"I froze the spell!" Kyo declared, hand pointed proudly to the defaced table and following it, Omi's eyes widened.

It wasn't just the sight of their elderly neighbor's cat, lying eviscerated that startled him, but the swirling miasma that hovered over it in a miniature, malevolent storm.

"Shit."

The rare occurrence of sweet, waif-like Bombay swearing halted the members of Weiss, even Ken. All three of them stared at him with something akin to astonishment, which he promptly dismissed. Honestly, did they really think he could have kept his ears clean after living with them all this time? Keeping the two strangers in his peripheral vision, he approached the vandalized table cautiously. Halting a good foot away, Omi swallowed back his nausea, pushing bothersome emotions out of the way so that he could analyze the sick display. Without taking his eyes away from the gruesome sight, he rapped out quick instructions to his team.

"... evidence recovery kit's in my duffle. Ken-kun, you go get that. Yohji-kun, please, may I borrow your 35mm? My digital's batteries are dead, and we haven't been to the store yet."

The level, commanding tone had the desired effect; both Yohji and Ken nodded promptly and ran to fetch the items that the team's information specialist had requested, coincidentally removing them from the peculiar teen's vicinity.

Omi listened with half an ear to the rapid clatter of Ken's sneakers on the iron steps leading down to the basement mission room, while he focused on his opposite number. Kyo's head was tilted to one side, watching him back with such obvious amusement that the younger blond was uneasy.

"You won't want to touch it. Trust me."

He eyed the grinning boy warily. "And why is that?" he asked cautiously.

Kyo shrugged affably. "I only froze the spell. The curse is still active. If you touch it, since it _is _tuned to the four of you, you'll unleash the curse's intent."

"Ah." Omi blinked bemusedly before backing away further from the table. He might not believe in magic wholeheartedly but the accumulation of little things, seemingly inconsequential on their own, but added together making for a disturbing picture, convinced him. "All right then, what do you suggest?"

Takashi spoke up, taking out a slim, black cell phone from inside his jacket. "We'll need to do a ritual cleaning - the spiritual kind - and blessing. After that, we can both take the evidence we need, yes?"

A small, involuntary twitch of protest from the silent Abyssinian at his back reminded Omi that he still had one more teammate to contend with. Unexpectedly, the swordsman muttered, "He's right. Don't touch it."

_Would wonders never cease...?_ Aya had just agreed with Takashi.

Bemused though he was, it finally sank in that they had a stranger standing in _their_ kitchen, about to make a call to call _his_ contacts… Omi's hand shot out, plucking the tiny black rectangle from the doctor's hand, automatically thumbing the phone off. "No." he said with more conviction than his trembling body was really up to, "Our house, our problem."

A different kind of wildness had flitted across the vibrating teen's pale blue eyes the second Omi had touched Takashi, and the younger blond had an instant of near panic; those were the reflexes of someone like them, of a fellow Hunter.

Hazel eyes were fixed with thoughtful intensity on Omi's innocent blue as the man's arm shot out, nearly cloths-lining his own partner. Takashi murmured softly, "Hold it, _koi_… I want to see what they have in mind."

Omi blinked, momentarily distracted from the sudden fear of provoking a dangerous unknown. Koi. . .? So they were more than just partners then. He was swiftly brought back to the present when Kyo hissed, trembling wildly and it quickly brought the other Weiss to ready alertness. He could feel Aya getting ready to lash out and without taking his eyes away from Takashi, Bombay placed a steadying hand on Aya's, murmuring, "Wait." The rigid, focused tension at his shoulder brought up a vision of the feral Abyssinian as an attack dog, on point and ready for a word of command, a concept that the younger Weiss found oddly comforting. Forcing himself to remain relaxed, open, he addressed the older intruder politely, "I'm sorry, but I – _we_ – really can't have you calling in more people. Not until we have a better idea what's going on."

Allowing his restraining arm to slowly drop, Takashi ignored the muttered "… no one touches _my_…" from his own partner. Instead, he forced a kind smile, holding back a knife's-edge of annoyance in favor of returning Omi's courtesy. "Of course. However… unless you have some very unusual friends, I don't see how you expect to take care of _that_ without our assistance. At lease let me call Tsuzuki back, and reassure him. You've met him, ne? Do you think he's dangerous, to you, or your friends?"

The younger Weiss swallowed the automatic retort that rose to his lips. _Did he consider _

_Tsuzuki dangerous-!__ Hah!_ Of course he did. The man with his beautiful, innocuous features had waltzed into the _Koneko_, past _Omi's _safe-guards.

But… he couldn't very well say that, not with Aya standing at attention behind his shoulder.

He sighed, hand rising to rub at the ache between his brows, and nearly whapped himself in the head with the cell phone that he still clutched. Automatically, the boy extended it to Takashi, murmuring, "No. I don't. But I'd rather we took care of … that… ourselves. We have responsibilities to our employers, and if you've been investigating us as you say you have, then you should understand that."

A large hand, lightly callused, covered his and with the small phone as a buffer, squeezed gently. "I do," Takashi answered wryly, taking his phone back and seemingly oblivious to Omi's reddened cheeks. Hushing his still protesting partner gently, he shot the two Weiss members an apologetic look before quickly dialing up his colleague again. He spent a few minutes quietly talking on the phone, and in the interim, Yohji and Ken came back from their errands, looking suspiciously at the cell phone but thankfully subsiding at a glance from Bombay as they slipped into place at his back.

Snapping his phone shut, Takashi smiled at Omi, the expression somewhat easier than before. "I realize we're not exactly in a position to make demands of you but if you could help us. . .?"

"With what?" This time, the suspicious growl came from a different teammate, as Yohji stepped up on the boy's far side, surreptitiously brushing against Omi's rear. But before the outraged blond could do more than stiffen at the unexpected contact, he recognized the hard feel of one of the former detective's triangular throwing knives slipping into his back pocket.

Trust Yohji to think of something like that.

If the strangers in their kitchen noticed the brief exchange, they made no comment, instead limiting themselves to courteous nods. Even the odd boy, Kyo, managed to look mild and unthreatening in the face of the unified Weiss front. Takashi took a deeper breath and plunged in bluntly, "You know that we're tracking a man in relation to a series of murders, yes? We believe that he's the same one who placed this abomination in your home, and who also attacked you. If at all possible, I'd like to collect some samples in hopes of being able to finally get a solid lead on his whereabouts."

Nodding reasonably, Yohji struck an outwardly casual pose, left hand on his hip, thumb of his right hand hooked carelessly into the low-ridding waist of his jeans. Coincidentally, it was a position that would also allow him to unspool his lethal wire faster than an ordinary person could see… A minute shift from Ken, adjusting his own balance, told Omi that his partners were ready and willing – and just waiting for his signal.

But… did they need to resort to violence? Here was a potential partnership that could fill some of the gaps left when Kritiker had been decimated first by Takatori's coup, and later by Eszett. Instincts that he trusted with his life and with his friends' lives said that whatever the four strangers were, if they had meant to destroy Weiss, Weiss would already have been gone. And Omi trusted his gut reactions, not only where the weird, pancake-loving older man was concerned, but also about the angelic boy, Hisoka, and now these two. Suddenly impatient, he flicked a quick finger sign at his own team, ordering them to stand down, even as he addressed Takashi briskly. "All right. But only after I make a couple of phone calls of my own."

Sunk in thought, the young tactician hardly noticed when Aya, Ken and Yohji exchanged sharp glances over his head, or that the sensei took a small step backwards, pulling his _koi_ with him. Step one was to get to a secure line where no one would be able to eavesdrop, and that meant down to the basement mission room… which meant leaving the others unsupervised. Uncertainty made Omi hesitate. Could he trust them to behave? He made a wobbling movement in the direction of the tight spiral of stairs, adding with a frustrated whine that it would also depend on him getting there. In one piece. And just then, the weakened teen didn't think he was up to descending the narrow metal steps.

Aya's hand gripped his elbow again.

Startled, the boy twisted, looking up into narrowed violet eyes that were unexpectedly troubled. "Do you want me to call Birman?" the tall man murmured. Mute, Omi nodded, and found himself being transferred over to Ken's supporting hand as their field leader slipped past and out of sight down the stairs.

An uncomfortable silence settled over the kitchen's remaining occupants, as they all tried to keep a wary eye on one another, while still avoiding looking directly at…_that_. No one wanted to sit, and offering hospitality was right out as no one could possibly want to eat with the malevolent curse drying on the table. That it added a foul, copper-blood scent, mixed with the sweetness of the lilies and mock orange was insult on top of injury, and as soon as little blond thought of it, his stomach roiled miserably.

Dammit, what could be taking Aya so long!

Maybe that was why he jumped so badly when a discrete trill emanated from Takashi's suit coat.

Getting a raised eyebrow from the doctor, Omi flushed but stared defiantly back as he nodded his permission for the man to answer the call, eliciting a quick smile from the doctor, and another hiss from his koi. Blinking, little Bombay tried to pacify Kyo with a hesitant smile. It didn't work. Was Kyo jealous?

". . .Hello? Ah. . ." The doctor was looking weirdly at his phone, surprise evident on his features. The three Weiss exchanged glances, not sure what to expect but Kyo apparently did. With a sudden grin, the boy skipped over to the open basement door, halting by the steps and hollering down, "Hey, Red! Come on up, no need to be shy! Taka doesn't bite!" He threw a smirk in Yohji's direction. "Unless I want him to."

"Kyo. Behave."

Perplexed and getting more than a little annoyed, Omi, Ken and Yohji watched silently as the strange (hell, make that 'off his rocker') boy bounced back to his partner, seemingly unable to do anything in moderation as he latched his arms around the taller man's neck, giggling softly.

Heavy thumps warned them that Aya was coming back up and the noisy ascent was unlike Abyssinian. Face flushed, Aya finally emerged and growled, "What's the meaning of this?" He waved the cordless phone in Takashi's direction.

The accused nudged his partner. "Kyo? An explanation would be good, please."

"Catherine-san is on our list," Kyo answered brightly.

'Catherine-san'. . .? Realization came almost immediately. 'Catherine' was one of Birman's more frequently-used aliases, when she needed to become the 'face' of Kritiker in order to handle less sensitive affairs without jeopardizing the organization's security. Usually guileless eyes gleamed calculatingly. And apparently, she had been in contact with the four newcomers in the past.

"Catherine-san. . .Ah yes, she's secured our services. . what, a year ago?" Takashi explained to the members of Weiss, "We hire ourselves out as onmyouji as well. It helps us keep track of the going-ons here in Japan without straining our resources. We've helped Catherine-san out in the past." He turned to Aya. "I'm guessing she referred you to my number?"

At Abyssinian's sour nod, Takashi let out a low chuckle. "Well then, Fujimiya-san, Tsukiyono-san, does this arrangement appease you, since your employer has seen fit to have us work together?"

"Only because they don't know the entire truth," Omi answered blandly and was rewarded with another smile.

"And the kitten shows his claws," Takashi murmured. The 'kitten' bristled, unsure whether to accept it as a compliment, insult or dismiss it entirely. It didn't help that the man's remark might indicate that they know about Weiss' code-names as well. But then, was it really surprising? After all, the four of them had been more than competent enough to trace them back to the _Koneko_, even with Omi's care to be sure there wasn't any tell-tale evidence left behind after a mission.

Omi felt his eyes narrow at the mistrust that surged through him, but before he could open his mouth to snap back – and maybe say something he'd regret – Yohji was nudging him toward Ken, saying, "Hey, Soccer Boy, why don't you help Omitchi up to his room. I'll be he'd really like some clean clothes about now." Startlement wiped the hostility and fear from the brunet's face, and he glanced at his younger teammate in surprise.

"Oh. O- okay, Yohji." The surprise turned to a mix of guilt and worry. "Hey, you probably shouldn't be on your feet, Omi. Let's go get you cleaned up."

Now that it was brought to his attention, the dark blond couldn't help but grimace and it took a fair bit of his training to not break out into an "Eew. . ." of disgust. Most of the liberal quantity of blood that he had lost was on himself and dried, caking blood wasn't exactly pleasant. Not when he had to contend with the stink in their kitchen as well.

"Gods, I need a shower," he grumbled under his breath and was rewarded with a tremulous laugh from the teammate who held his elbow in an increasingly tight grip.

"Y-yeah, that w-would be a good idea."

He looked up into wild, chocolate-brown eyes with more than a hint of worry. Ken had been wound up tighter than a spring, ever since the mall incident and time and relative distance didn't seem to be easing whatever it was that had spooked Siberian so badly. Ignoring the others for now, he gently disengaged his elbow, hooking his arm through Ken's instead and urged him to the direction of the stairs. But even before he set foot on the first riser, Ken following his lead dumbly, he was stopped by a soft touch on his other arm. Takashi had approached them silently, his partner hanging back but keeping a careful eye on them all the same.

"If I might trouble you for a while?" the auburn haired doctor murmured, looking significantly at Ken, and back to Omi.

Frowning, the small tactician nodded once - a sharp motion that indicated his reluctant readiness. He wasn't about to let a stranger mess with his friend, and he made sure the other man knew it. Giving a small nod of comprehension, Takashi did not try to physically engage the tense Hunter but instead, asked kindly, "Did you, by any chance, Hidaka-san, met a man dressed in white, with silver hair?"

Still holding on to Siberian's arm, ostensibly for support but more to make sure that the skittish man didn't do anything foolish, Omi clearly felt the way Ken froze, muscles bunching under his hand, and the sharp exhalation that ruffled his bangs.

"Y-yeah. . ." the former soccer player nodded jerkily. "I thought it was weird, y-you know? Him all dressed up i-in w-white like that. Thought he was a stuck up bastard th-that one. Turns out he was all that and more, huh?"

"And he was the one who hurt me," Omi added quietly, rubbing Ken's arm soothingly when the boy jerked in remembrance.

Unsurprised, darker, almost-black lashes swept down, veiling the gold-flecked green of Takashi's eyes and the man reached over, putting his own hand over their entwined ones. There was a very small smile on the doctor's face - something that was genuinely kind and sympathetic, not like the earlier mask of professionalism he wore. At that moment, Omi firmly believed that despite their unorthodox introduction, despite the occasional lapses into otherworldly weirdness, and despite their claim to magic, this man truly wanted to help.

That was why he refrained from cutting off the lightly tanned hand at the wrist with Yohji's blade.

"Do not think less of yourself for reacting so to him," Takashi spoke softly. His eyes, unnaturally wide and nearly glowing gold, flicked up and he locked gazes with the frozen Siberian, ignoring Omi. "Muraki has done things even I dare not speak of and others stronger than me have felt exactly as you do now." And with those words, an indefinable … _warmth_ surged through their linked hands. Beside him, Ken immediately sagged in relief and even Bombay felt himself relax perceptibly. "I'm sorry that you had to endure him alone."

"What…?" Ken whispered weakly, and alarmed, Omi clutched at his friend's elbow as the strange doctor smiled and stepped back. Takashi spoke in a normal, cheerful tone.

"That was only a very _little_ curse. Nothing to be worried about, Hidaka-san."

Shaking himself like a dog out of water, Siberian stammered, "T- thank you, for… whatever it was you just did." The Hunter's frank, candid acceptance threw Omi into a loop but even he could not deny that whatever it was the man had done, it had _helped._ 'Little' was probably an understatement to keep from freaking the ball player out; sensitized by his own experience, Omi had felt the snapping of the spell driving Ken dangerously close to hysteria, and it had felt anything but trivial. Knots of tension Bombay hadn't even been aware of dissolved in the flood of relief that Ken was okay, and all of a sudden, he lost feeling in his legs and his knees buckled underneath him.

With a yelp, Ken quickly scooped the youngest assassin into his arms. There was a wry chuckle from Takashi and Omi scowled when his hair was ruffled, the gesture unmistakably affectionate.

"I may have broken your curse first, and helped your body restore itself, but it wasn't a full healing," he chided, shooing them toward the door. "You'll need some rest soon, before you collapse completely. Myself and the others will wait for Asato and for Hisoka-kun. Hidaka-san, if you would make sure that Tsukiyono-san has plenty to drink, as well? Thank you."

Wearied beyond belief, Omi didn't even protest when Ken insisted on carrying him up the stairs. He supposed he could afford to be generous, what with the lingering warmth of having Takashi call him "Tsukiyono-san,' instead of '-kun,' in response to the reality of what life had dealt him, and not only his apparent age. Ken was talking, mostly to himself, about hot water, bandages, and towels, and it made for a comforting lullaby, vibrating under Omi's cheek. He was actually dozing, and awakened with a jerk, when Ken set him down on the closed toilet seat and began peeling off his bloodied clothes. The older boy seemed oblivious to how the touch of blunt, strong hands raised goose flesh on gory skin, and Omi could only be grateful that the frowning, chocolate gaze was fixed on the ruins of his favorite L'Arc en Ciel shirt.

"Geez, Omi… I dunno. I hate to toss it, but face it, this shirt is trashed."

The hacker managed a strangled whisper. "It's okay. I don't care. Just throw it out. After today, I don't think I could wear that again, anyhow."

"Hmm?" Guileless brown met dark blue, and Ken frowned. "Hey, don't go doing anything weird, like passing out on me, okay? That doctor, Takashi, he said to make sure that you got something to drink. I want you to just sit here, and relax, 'cause I'm going to go to my room and get a bottle of sports drink. I've got some stuff that should do the trick."

Mute, Omi nodded, and waved Ken toward the door. Okay, technically, he hadn't promised _not_ to pass out, and for a moment, after the worried soccer player left, he bent forward and hung his head between his knees until the darkness receded. But it wasn't the fear of unconsciousness while there was an unknown danger outside, and potentially dangerous strangers inside that was getting to him. More, it was a case of _What the Hell has gotten into **me**?_

Right. Attempted murder by a man he'd never even _seen_ before, followed by finding that someone – very likely the exact same man – had not only entered the one place that he'd felt safe, but desecrated it. Add on discovering that a boy who had likewise circumvented Omi's best security had also managed to break in, and that said boy could _fly_… It was a wonder that Kritiker hadn't outfitted him with a strait-jacket to match the crazy Schwarz's, Farfarello's. The giggling Hunter buried his face in his still-bloodied hands, and fought for a calming breath.

"Omi…" There was a sharp clatter as hard plastic hit the bathroom's tiled floor, and bounced, and then muscular arms were wrapped tightly around the sobbing teen, rocking him until the mixed hilarity and hysteria died away.

The embrace felt really, really good… and not just because it kept the demons at bay, either. Omi was almost disappointed when his partner released him, and shoved a bottle into his hands. "Drink this, while I get the shower up to temperature, okay? We probably shouldn't leave Yohji in charge any longer than strictly necessary – who knows what that guy will get us into?"

_Uh, oh… _Omi blinked, and went to work setting a speed record for downing a half-liter of the worst tasting bile that he had ever encountered.

* * *

Clean, refreshed and only slightly out of sorts, as he _was_ recovering from major blood loss, Bombay was in a decidedly better mood as he went downstairs with Ken hovering behind him. His ruined t-shirt had been replaced with another - a long-sleeved tee from Glay's Tokyo Dome concert. Next to the L'arc en Ciel, it was his favorite and surely fate wouldn't be so unkind as to ruin this one as well, right?

Stopping just inside the kitchen doorway, Omi quickly revised his earlier optimism. Fate, he remembered glumly, could screw you ten ways to next week and still find ingenious methods to turn your life upside down and on its way to merry hell.

The reason for his sudden gloom? Only the fact that there were currently six people in the small kitchen and with various degrees in intensity, all of them were glaring at each other, the sides they took all too clearly shown with the two oldest members of Weiss off to one side and their new 'friends' at the other.

"Damn, this isn't going to be pretty," came Ken's low muttering from behind and Omi had to agree.

Before physical violence could erupt, the youth made his presence known with a light cough and found himself the uncomfortable recipient of intense stares. Undeterred (living with Aya tended to thicken your skin after a while to such hostile looks), he graced the newcomers with a slight nod.

"Tsuzuki-san," he greeted the violet-eyed man neutrally. "And Hisoka-san."

There were murmurs of greetings before the atmosphere subsided back into tense wariness. Neither party knew where to start and judging by the looks of it, Aya and Yohji were getting more than a little impatient and that strange boy was starting to hum again.

The sight of his bulging duffel sitting neglected on the floor by Yohji's feet recalled Omi to more important things – like getting samples of whatever trace evidence he could before that… _thing_ … with its whirling cloud of red and black streaked miasma could be dealt with. He reached for the bag, nodding at the other petit blond. "Ne, Hisoka-san… As I understand it, touching this curse isn't a good idea. How would I go about gathering evidence without setting it off?" Green eyes, a shade brighter and more intense than Yohji's, blinked at him, then golden-brown eyebrows pulled into a thoughtful frown.

"Kyo only has it in a kind of suspended animation. I would suggest that you wait until it's disarmed before attempting anything." The eyes shifted to his own partner, glancing up at the tall form leaning carelessly against the refrigerator door. "Tsuzuki? Do you think a camera flash would have any ill effect?"

A frown marred the face of the young blond's partner, as he ambled closer to the frozen construct, hands stuffed deep in the pockets of his trench coat. Tsuzuki ignored the way both Yohji and Aya eyed him warily as he bent closer to the table. With a shake of his head, Tsuzuki straightened, running a hand through his already messy bangs.

"Better not," he concluded wearily. "Usually, I'd say there's no harm in it but with Muraki involved. . ." Omi did not fail to notice the way Hisoka flinched at the mention of that name. "Better safe than sorry. I wouldn't put it past that bastard that even a simple thing like a flash could trigger a trap."

"So what do you suggest then?" the Weiss tactician asked, just the slightest bit miffed. He was getting annoyed - standard procedure seemed to be flying out of the window, and all thanks to the advice of people whom he only knew by their names and nothing more.

The tall brunet exchanged glances with his much smaller partner and something unreadable flashed between their gazes. With a small nod, Hisoka gestured to Omi even as he caught hold of one of Kyo's arm, halting the dreamy humming.

"Kyo," he said quietly and light blue eyes snapped open. "Why don't we go upstairs and you can tell me what happened?"

The dark haired boy looked back and forth between his own partner and the blond youth, chewing his bottom lip thoughtfully. He seemed torn over an issue; one that Omi realized with a start, concerned him. "He might touch Taka again," Kyo complained, making it clear that he didn't want Takashi anywhere near the bemused Bombay. At least, not without supervision.

"I want Tsukiyono-san to follow us, as well," Hisoka soothed, patting his friend's arm. "Tsuzuki and Takashi need to concentrate on the unbinding, Kyo. And you must be tired, yes?"

"Just a bit," Kyo admitted grudgingly and with Hisoka tugging him, and Takashi himself urging him to go, the boy finally relented, following Hisoka's lead like an obedient puppy and Omi fell into step with the other blond, Ken bringing up the rear.

Relief, more than could be accounted for just by getting away from the weird boy's behavior flashed across Tsuzuki's features, and Omi resisted the temptation to point out that it had been _Aya_, not himself, who had grappled with the doctor. And Aya was making no move whatsoever to leave. In fact, Weiss' field leader was leveling a thoughtful stare at Tsuzuki that was almost more frightening than his usual glare.

Side by side, just before mounting the staircase in Kyo's bounding wake, Hisoka muttered, "Some choice… babysitting the crazy one, or avoiding the effects of curse resonance…." Jerking his head in the direction of the older boy's back, already vanishing through the second-floor door, the scowling blond added, "Him, not you."

Intrigued, Omi whispered, " 'Curse resonance?' "

"Aa. You and me, we've both been cursed by Muraki-sensei. Even if Tsuzuki was too polite to say it, staying down there, in close proximity to one of his workings while they disassemble it is likely to be painful."

"Hm." Keeping one hand carefully on the banister, Omi considered the new information. "So… you were cursed?"

"Yes." Hisoka snapped shortly. Interestingly, a tide of red flooded his features, only to ebb away, leaving him pale and tense. The way his soft mouth tightened suggested that further questions would be far from welcome, but that wasn't something that Omi was likely to allow to dissuade him. Instead, the hacker pulled out his friendliest, most clueless grin, and said, "How terrible! But at least you can tell me what to expect, ne?"

It was with considerable surprise that Bombay found himself pinned to the wall, Siberian barely stopping himself from crashing into them. And his teammate would have attacked then, if not for the fact that Hisoka didn't do anything else beyond pinning his arm across the tactician's chest and hiss low enough that his words wouldn't carry to the kitchen, "Drop the clueless act, mortal." Fervent, shadowed forest-green eyes bored into him, freezing him into place. "You know nothing of the monster hunting you and you might want to thank all the gods you can for it. And as to how I was cursed. . ." The mirthless grin the blond gave was disconcerting, a too gruesome expression for one as young as he, and it kept Omi still as Hisoka pushed off of him and, with a swift movement, unbuttoned the top of his shirt. Concentration lowered his brows and broke that strange hold, and Omi opened his mouth, ready to retort when he was stopped cold.

Lines of red flared to life on the visible skin of Hisoka's chest. Judging by what he could see, the patterns covered the boy's entire upper torso and, checking the sullen glow beneath the boy's clothing, it most likely covered his entire body.

_. . .sweet Jesus, his entire **body**?_

"He carved this into me, his own personal brand." Morbidly satisfied, Hisoka eyed him expectantly, that twisted smile again turning his angelic face into something dark and bitter.

"He. . .carved. . .?" came Ken's faint voice.

All of a sudden, the strange boy deflated, sighing as he re-buttoned his shirt. "Yes," he snapped wearily. "Happy now, or would you like more of the gory details?"

Caught off guard, Omi shook his head, managing a tremulous, "No. . .I. . ."

"Tch. Whatever." With disconcerting speed, the earlier mask of indifference, tinged lightly with annoyance, returned and Hisoka trudged up the stairs.

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**Cosmos** – harmony.

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**Note: **I'm really sorry for the lack of review replies. Not feeling well. Blergh. Figured might as well put this out. Review? Pretty please? WDCAK 36 coming soon.


	16. Monozuki 16: Tsuzuki and Agnus Castus

**Monozuki**** – **An Idle Curiosity

_A Weiss Kreuz/Yami no Matsuei crossover._

**By Lisa**

**Monozuki 16: Tsuzuki and Agnus Castus**

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**_Author's Note:_**_ A little rough, a little raw…. and a heck of a lot later than I'd planned it to be… With many thanks to Literary Eagle, Gay, and Kelly for beta reading._

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_'Soka-chan must be in a lot of pain._

A truism, but oddly enough, one that carried a measure of comfort within it, because hard on its heels came a second part that the first could not exist without:

_Hisoka is strong._

There was no point in trying to explain it; Tsuzuki had realized that a long time ago. His partner _was_ strong, and that was that. And, much though the older Shinigami wished that there were some way to stop the pain wracking the small body, it didn't really matter.

Because Hisoka was strong.

He repeated the litany one more time, willing his ears to block out the angry hiss of his beloved's voice, coming from somewhere above and behind, most likely on the stairs that lead up into the depths of the building. 'Soka-chan wouldn't thank him if he was stupid, and allowed himself to be distracted, no matter how much he might whine and offer excuses later. Just now, Tsuzuki had a curse to contend with, and that meant not thinking about how odd it was that the four youngest of the combined teams were the ones the most damaged by events, or how sooner or later one of them would end up offended over it. _That_ was a problem for later.

Truthfully, it would have been a blessing to be able to utilize Kyo's unique awareness. The four of them were a good combination on missions precisely because their abilities complimented, and Kyo's nearly symbiotic relationship with four of the Elements was especially useful in situations like this. He could see and sense things that Tsuzuki could only guess at. But to take advantage of him required the giving of trust, and sadly, that was the one thing that the senior Shinigami could not do. His own partner might scowl and offer terse complaint that the Commander of the Divine Twelve was 'too damned willing to take the word of _anybody_ – even a General of Hell,' but honestly, Tsuzuki wasn't a complete idiot. There were some chances that were meant to be taken, and then there were those that amounted to suicide, and he'd moved past the urge to do _that_. Shaking his head a little, he peeled off first his black coat, then the suit jacket underneath, and tossed them carelessly half onto a chair that had been pushed far to one side, away from the battered kitchen table and its burden. With his tie at half mast, all there remained to do was to roll up his wrinkled white shirt sleeves a turn or two, and then he was as ready as he was ever going to be.

Tsuzuki took a deep breath, and reached for the bag he'd abandoned on the kitchen counter. Whatever the case, the frozen curse wasn't going to wait all day for him to get his act together.

"Is that one of Tatsumi's economical, one-size-fits-most kits?"

The low, sarcastic murmur from Takashi brought a momentary lift to the corners of the taller man's mouth. "Aa." he replied cheerfully. "The latest model, in fact."

Takashi snorted derisively, adding too softly for the remaining Weiss to hear, "I'm still trying to get over the idea of disposable packaging, myself."

The man had a point, Tsuzuki had to concede as he snickered and fought to keep a suitably solemn face. Who would have thought that the ever-practical Secretary, in his quest for cheaper methods would end up borrowing the mortal concept of a ready-to-use bio-hazard kit? But he had. And now the Shokan stocked easy-to-open plastic bags filled with latex gloves, a disposable smock, plastic goggles – and neatly calligraphed ofuda and generic protective amulets – all ready and waiting to for a field operative to use when cleaning up nasty spills of magic. The requisite paperwork, together with a cheap pen, was even included, in an effort to eliminate the excuses of agents like Tsuzuki himself, who had raised avoiding reports to an art form.

If the situation hadn't been so serious, Tsuzuki would have been rolling on the floor, howling with laughter. As it was, the corners of his eyes crinkled, giving him a look that was _almost_ as fractured as one of Kyo's wide grins.

Takashi shuddered, theatrically.

A low growl reminded the two Shinigami that they did still have an audience, and one that neither understood the gravity of the swirling miasma centered in their kitchen, nor the value of a little humor as a method of keeping from running away, screaming hysterically. The taller blond of the remaining Weiss, 'Kudoh' as Tsuzuki recalled, had been the source of the noise, staring with thin-lipped displeasure, but it was the fury in the red haired one's glare that was really frightening. Tsuzuki shot a quick glance at his own colleague, impressed that not only had Takashi kept his temper while dealing with the other redhead's idea of 'helping,' but that he'd come out of a scuffle with the mortal with neither of them seriously injured. With Kyo acting as oddly as he had been, it was nothing short of miraculous that the elder of that pair hadn't snapped, too. Violet eyes narrowing thoughtfully, Tsuzuki spread out the selection of ofuda that Tatsumi had provided on the white tiled counter, but it was not Sanskrit and rice paper that he was seeing, rather it was a memory of two of his dearest friends, broken and dying the Final Death, as Enma granted them salvation under his personal seal. It was not something that he ever wanted to witness again.

"Asato. You're procrastinating." Takashi said severely from behind his shoulder.

"Eh…" Sheepishly, the taller brunet scrubbed at the back of his neck and tried on a repentant grin, like a kid caught raiding the cookie jar. Folding his arms over his chest, his friend gave him a stony, unforgiving glare.

"Today, Asato. I'd like to have my appetite back by dinner time, if you don't mind."

_Ouch_. At the mention of food, it abruptly became impossible to ignore the stench of corroding iron and corruption, mingling with the sweetness of flowers. It was every bit as stomach-churning as the fouled magic knotted into a web over air and table. The choked gagging from Kudoh made it clear that he was just as affected by the suggestion, and hastily, Tsuzuki snatched up an ofuda for a low-level kekkai, snapping the shield into place around the table. While far from strong enough to contain the malevolence of the curse, it would at least ensure breathable air.

The only problem was that there was really nothing else usable in the selection of spells within the kit, and he said as much, apologetically, "Takashi-sensei? We'll need something a bit more powerful, I'm afraid. Could you possible anchor the containment field while I see to it?"

"Yes. Of course." replied the former doctor, moving carefully into place across at the far side of the table. His hands settled gracefully into the mudra: two fingers pointing upward, with the palm of his other hand to serve as a capstone. With a quiet sigh, Tsuzuki released the kekkai into his control and scratched at his forehead.

The obvious thing to do would be to create a more permanent seal than the temporary stasis that Kyo had placed on the curse. Yet, the best source of the power to craft a seal was his own blood, and with Muraki involved, that didn't seem wise at all. The insane doctor would be counting on anyone trying to disarm the spell taking the easy way out. And if there was one thing the Shinigami had learned through their encounters with the man, it was that simple and direct were usually steps on the path to Hell. But that left actually dismantling the horror as the only viable choice, and his skin crawled at the thought of it.

"I thought you were in a Hell of a hurry, Mr. Expert." The slow, insulting drawl snapped Tsuzuki's attention back to the pair of mortals waiting impatiently to one side. Kudoh was leaning against the edge of the counter just to one side of the sink, masking his impatience and discomfort behind a leer and ever-present sunglasses. To one side, standing in front of the brushed steel of the refrigerator, the one with eyes that were unnervingly like – yet unlike – Tsuzuki's own stared back with hostile suspicion.

Having them there like that was _not_ making things any easier.

"You have to leave." The older Shinigami said simply.

"Excuse me?" Shocked out of his negligent pose, the blond Hunter stared. Tsuzuki fought off the urge to sigh again. His companions sometimes teased that he was too old-fashioned, in both the Japanese dialect he spoke, and the occasionally excessive politeness, but really, good manners made the world easier to get along with, and if there was one thing he abhorred, it was quarrelling. It always made him feel as if it were his fault – for not being good enough, or clever enough. For not being _human_ enough to be what the people around him demanded. Yet at the same time, there was no way that he would be able to do his job with the tensed, angry suspicion hanging in the air like a second curse. Tsuzuki eyed the two men, noting not only their anticipation of a fight – weight balanced on the balls of the feet, muscles coiled and ready – but the slightly too great distance between them. He had no particular training in combat arts, but he _had_ worked in tandem with another for more than seventy years as a Shinigami; he understood how teammates bolstered one another's strengths, and covered for weaknesses. Yet, the mortal Hunters were not unified. Until fortune had brought Hisoka to him, Tsuzuki had been the same way – working beside, but never really _with_ his partners. He could recognize it when he saw it in others.

And he wasn't about to trust the safety of any of them – his own team, or theirs – to the chance that they would manage to function when the chips were down.

But much to the tall brunet's surprise, it was Takashi who spoke up swiftly. "Asato, you can't make them leave – it's their home."

"But this will be difficult enough as it is." he protested automatically. "It would be like Muraki to create something subtle, but lethal, merging symbols that have the power of belief behind them, with the miasma of death from the sacrificed cat. I'll have to use something like the _kuji_ to take this apart safely."

"What are you talking about?" Kudoh again, interrupting with a fierceness that spoke of having reached the end of his metaphorical leash. Takashi glanced his way, answering with equal intensity, but so low that the blond Hunter was forced to shut up to hear the reply.

"The _kuji_ is a spell of Taoist, not Buddhist origin, which at some time was adopted by the Shugendo, and assigned its nine mudras. It creates a gate, through which energy can pass, but evil cannot. It's dangerous."

"Ah…" The playboy blinked. Gates? Energy? _Spells_! If the cause of the incredulity chasing across the man's face hadn't been so potentially lethal, Tsuzuki would have laughed. Even so, smiling faintly, he decided to take pity on the baffled looks shooting his way.

"What was done here, this curse, is built using a system of magic based on homonyms – that words which sound the same can have radically different meanings. Originally Chinese, this kind of spell structure was already in use in the Heian period, more than a thousand years ago, here in Japan. The onmyouji – Yin Yang sorcerers – formalized a great deal of it." Tsuzuki gestured vaguely at the table with its gruesome burden, safe within the kekkai that his partner was anchoring. "The curse is built around patterns of four, because the word for 'four' – _shi_ – is the same as the word for 'death.' The text is written four times, there are four lilies signifying hatred, four clusters of orange blossoms for deceit, and unless I am mistaken, the cat was slain using four strokes. That there are also four of _you_ is an unfortunate coincidence. I think we will also need to perform a cleansing for _tsumi_ – for the pollution of death and blood – so that you will all be less attractive to the animosity summoned by this curse."

When the Shinigami paused for breath, he was surprised that it was the red haired swordsman who said slowly, "We are familiar with the meanings of the flowers, and I know the rituals for _tsumi._ But I fail to see the point. If the purpose of this thing was to kill us, there would be no need for such an elaborate play. Why toy with us when there are more efficient ways to destroy us?"

Smile fading utterly away, Tsuzuki met his gaze, sorrowful violet against violet. "Revenge, Fujimiya-san. Muraki-sensei is seeking revenge."

"What the fuck- !" Kudoh exploded. "_He's_ out for revenge? We've never even met the man. What- "

Snapping up, Fujimiya Aya's arm became a bar of iron, catching the taller man at chest height, and effectively stopping his angry advance. But his hard stare never wavered from Tsuzuki's as he hissed, "Yohji. Enough. There has to be a reason- " and here his attention sharpened, becoming as razor edged as his katana as he addressed the rest of his words to the wary Shinigami, " –and you _will_ tell us what it is."

Takashi sighed. "This is not the best time to be discussing this, but yes, we _do_ think that there's a reason Muraki is interested in your team."

The response was obviously inadequate as chill fury narrowed the long eyes that would be better used illuminating a face that was nearly as beautiful as a Shinigami's. And more stubborn. Sending a warning glance Takashi's way and abandoning the paraphernalia that littered the white counter, Tsuzuki ambled over, only stopping when he was close enough to force the swordsman to tilt his head back slightly. "You killed a man in Kyoto recently."

"Yes." Fujimiya's arm tensed, holding back his partner's instinctive jerk of protest at the admission. Tsuzuki ignored the blond.

"This man, he was very well connected. Very influential."

"Yes." repeated the slim kenkaku, his tone flat. "We were given the mission because he was influential. Too influential. He was tied to an extortion and blackmail ring run by Kansai area yakuza."

"Perhaps. I won't debate with you as to whether or not your information was accurate." Tsuzuki paused, recalling the horror that he had felt, himself, when the report had landed on his desk, and also the sharp curse from Hisoka when he'd told his young partner. No, the circumstances really were not important – only the result. "I will not argue with you. Not when the important thing is that this man that you executed was the lover of a powerful, and very, very insane practitioner of Dark magic. And that is why Muraki will not be satisfied with merely killing you. He wishes that you suffer."

The honest bewilderment on the features of both young mortals made Tsuzuki feel terribly old, and more than a little jaded. To them, Mibu Oriya had been merely a Dark Beast, legitimate prey. They had never met the man, never seen the depths of his honor, nor that of the doomed feelings he had harbored for the madman, Muraki. But Tsuzuki had, and so had Hisoka. And to the two Shinigami, it had bordered on an obscenity that a man whom they had genuinely liked, in spite of his relationship with their nemesis, had been slaughtered.

And 'slaughter' was the correct word, as well. It had not been a clean death. Tsuzuki hadn't seen the actual crime scene; that had been cleaned up hours before the Shokan had gotten wind of the case from the human investigators of the Kyoto police; but he'd seen the photos, both of the destruction at the Ko Kaku Rou, and of the inn's master. Oriya had fought very hard indeed, against someone who had been even better with the blade than such a skilled swordsman. It had been Hisoka, staring at a reconstruction of the running battle based on blood splatters and the gouges hacked in the restaurant's walls, who had pronounced that the murder bore a disturbing resemblance to a similar case in Tokyo…. Which had led the Shinigami finally to Weiss' sword-master, Fujimiya Aya.

Who felt nothing for the life that he had snuffed out, extinguishing its flame in the Hall of Candles.

Tsuzuki shook his head sadly. Truly, in some ways the handsome redhead was more of a Shinigami than _he_ was.

The man in question startled Tsuzuki back into an awareness of his surroundings by taking a slow step toward the table, reaching out one deceptively slim hand, fingers fanned to grope for something that couldn't be seen. Moving with supernatural haste, the flustered Shokan agent interjected himself between mortal and sure death, yelping, "What do you think you're _doing_?" The cold violet gaze snapped up to meet his, becoming even more glacial – if that was possible – as they assessed him.

"There's more that you aren't telling us." the flat voice accused. "If you won't, I'll find it out for myself."

"But it's _dangerous_!" The automatic protest had hardly passed Tsuzuki's lips before his opponent had stepped neatly around him, dismissing Enma's master of the Divine Twelve as if he were nothing more than a… a bus-boy in Tsuzuki's favorite Earthly restaurant. It was galling, and also a little disconcerting that Fujimiya had accomplished it so easily.

"Why target all of us, if I'm the guilty one?" The sharp demand was tossed over the sweater-clad shoulder. His hand hovered entirely too near to the feeble containment in a blatant threat that if he didn't get an acceptable explanation, he _would_ take that final step. Never mind that the assassin would be its first victim; an answer would be forthcoming, or there would be consequences. Takashi sighed his exasperation and replied before the elder brunet could.

"Asato told you; revenge is sweeter than simply balancing the books would be. Muraki-sensei wants to hurt you more than he was hurt."

"Incorrect." The swift negation was accompanied by another of the swordsman's time-freezing glares. "I don't 'love' any of my co-workers. Weiss represents nothing more than a business arrangement. If he truly wished me to suffer, my real weakness is my sister. Yet when I called her guardian a little while ago from the basement, there had been no attempt to tamper with her. I repeat, 'why target all of us?' "

Aya's blunt denial of the importance of his companions was just plain wrong. Tsuzuki's mouth opened to say exactly that, until common sense caught up to his run-away urge to meddle; the imaginary Hisoka shouting 'Baka!' in the back of the Shinigami's mind was a powerful deterrent when nothing else worked. It was true that this Fujimiya was harsh and unforgiving, much like Hisoka. Yet the coldness in them was two very different things, in Tsuzuki's opinion. The mortal redhead's was a kind of cold that froze everything around him – something that was willing to cut down any opposition – while the Shinigami's was just a shell to protect the child inside.

Hisoka's ice was thin, and brittle; easy to break. This Aya… it was almost to the core.

Gently, Tsuzuki opted for diplomacy, saying, "I don't know. But wouldn't you agree that it would be wisest to discuss the matter when there is less risk of _all_ of us ending up splattered across the metaphoric landscape? It will be hard to do anything about the situation if it kills you first."

Thankfully, logic prevailed where shouting would have failed. Grudgingly, the wine-dark head inclined in agreement, and he withdrew to again lean against the counter near – but not _too_ near – the baffled blond. Too smart to think that the swordsman had actually given in – Enma forbid he be _that_ sensible – Tsuzuki gave Fujimiya a small, grateful bow. The other Hunter, Kudoh, smirked at the unintentional sarcasm behind the gesture. Really, did no one take Tsuzuki at face value?

But whether they did, or not, made no difference to the fact that there was still a malignant curse waiting to be defused, and – Tsuzuki's stomach rumbled alarmingly – no way that he was going to be able to eat until the stench was cleaned up. The pancakes made by the smaller child-assassin had been a long, long time ago. But an even bigger incentive was his own partner practically radiating exasperation through the intervening floor.

"Hai, hai…" he sighed. "I'm getting to it." Tsuzuki shot a quick glance at Takashi, noting his continued readiness, and exchanged a tiny nod with him. A slow breath out, and the eerie, orchid colored eyes rolled back into his head as the Shinigami slipped easily into the light trance necessary. Trapped within his eyelids, an unseen landscape of flickering energies unfurled: cool silver, and the sunlit warmth of gold, black-streaked reds… mortal, and immortal.

Just, and profane.

Against his inward vision, trails of fireflies flickered, lingering in four dimensions in the arcane patterns that could not be replicated in the mere two of paper and ink. They followed each graceful swoop and twist of undead hands as Tsuzuki built the nine mudra, slowly chanting "_Rin-byou-toh-sha-kai-jin-retsu-zai-ZEN!_" On the final syllable, two stiffly outstretched fingers swiftly made the shape of the Gate, four vertical slashes, and five horizontal. His voice rose to counter the roar made as displaced air rushed through the spatial distortion, dragging the leading edge of the swirling miasma with it.

Somewhere, on the edge of his awareness, Tsuzuki felt the… _wobbling_… of reality, like a spinning top that lacked sufficient momentum. Sparks were no longer hovering in space, but falling, like shooting stars trapped within the well of the astral plane's Earth. But whereas a real meteorite would be consumed by its journey into the atmosphere, these strengthened and grew brighter. The farther away Tsuzuki got, the hotter they burned.

Contradictions.

Realization slammed the older Shinigami between the eyes; the trigger for Muraki's trap wasn't touching the dead cat, at all. It lay in _not_ touching, in trying to disarm the puzzle from a safe distance. Pulling back was like over-stretching a rubber band – the longer it got, the greater the danger that it would snap, and the worse it would sting when it did.

He had to close the Gate, and now. _Before_ the spell reached its breaking point. Frantic, clutching at the energy spinning past into the vortex, Tsuzuki grunted, "Ah-un!" the first and last syllables of the Sanskrit alphabet, encompassing all of the universe between them, and theoretically capable of shutting the damned barn door before everything escaped--

_Too late…_ his subconscious whispered, feeling the burst of despair an instant before it hit.

A blinding flash and Takashi's outraged cry of pain had the tall brunet wrapping his arms protectively around his head, hunching away from the flaming table. It was all the warning that the other Shinigami had that the spell packed a final sucker-punch; the kitchen filling rapidly with noxious, magic-laden fumes. The barrier that the sensei had been anchoring was gone, its splintering backlash having slammed the man into the corner of the brushed steel stove. The thick smoke was inconvenient for a Guardian – not fatal. But to a fragile human, it was without a doubt lethal, and- Tsuzuki groaned out loud. Humans. Enma be merciful, he had against better judgement allowed two of them to remain as observers.

He had again killed the ones he wanted to protect.

_"Namu amida butsu!_" The shouted invocation of Buddha's protection wrenched Tsuzuki from his self-recriminatory haze, and it startled him, but nowhere near as much as seeing the pale violet glow of a weak barrier flickering between the pair of mortals and the expanding miasma of the curse.

It was _not_ coming from Takashi, still struggling to get his legs under him against the stove.

And it sure as Enma's Hell wasn't coming from Tsuzuki…

Who would have thought that Fujimiya followed the Pure Land sect – or that he had sufficient spiritual power to call upon that sanctuary in reality, and not merely in piety? The snarling redhead, arm outstretched less to defend than to out-and-out repulse, sprawled half across the lap of his blond co-worker, oblivious to the expression of shock on the man's face.

Wearily, Tsuzuki scrubbed both palms over his face, smearing the sooty residue and no doubt looking like a raccoon as a result, and groaned. Tatsumi was going to have a field day over the mess – and that would mean _weeks_ of filling out forms and reports.

There were days when it simply didn't pay to get out of bed.

_To be continued…_

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**A/N: **(Weird observation – in the Side B manga, Ken calls Aya "Shinigami Aya" at one point. Hmm…)

**Agnus Castus: **Coldness, indifference, life without love.

**Bibliography:**

**The Catalpa Bow: A Study of Shamanistic Practices in Japan** – Carmen Blacker.

London : George Allen & Unwin Ltd., 1975. ISBN 0-04-398006-6

This book is full of information about various magical practices, both historical and present day. Excellent resource! Warning, however, that the particular spells and applications of spells used here in Monozuki are the product of my own feverish imagination, and are not to be taken as exact.

**Kelly: **Yeah! What Lisa said! And review!


	17. Monozuki 17: Aya and Gladiolus

**Monozuki**** – **An Idle Curiosity

_A Weiss Kreuz/Yami no Matsuei crossover._

**By Kelly**

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**Monozuki**** 17 – Aya and Gladiolus**

* * *

"Hey."

Aya ignored the weary greeting, padding past the slumped figure leaning against the sink who gave it, to somewhat half-heartedly pull the refrigerator door open. The lack of light in the kitchen made the cold orange glow spilling out all the brighter and the more offensive for it. Squinting a bit as the dim light spoiled his night-vision, Aya perused the contents of the fridge with the air of a man looking for salvation.

And whatever sort of salvation he was looking for, he did not find it, as the swordsman leaned resignedly against the steel door, letting it prop his tired body. The cool mist drifting, curling around his bare feet was comforting, too-warm as he was. Even in his usual sleep attire – threadbare grey sweats and nothing else.

"Aya? You okay?"

The redhead gave an approximation of a grunt. Kudoh was too damn persistent for four in the morning. The non-verbal reply deemed sufficient, Kudoh uncurled like a great, big, lazy cat and sort of puddled into the nearest chair. The table itself was gone, as all four members of Weiss unanimously voted for its destruction and didn't that send a similarly cold tendril down his spine when Aya thought about the. . stunt he pulled off?

"Come on, sit." Kudoh patted the chair next to his and held out a mug. "I've got tea."

That, Aya decided, was an underhanded move. Typical Kudoh, knowing his more apparent weaknesses and moving in for the kill. Scowling, the redhead took the proffered chair, though he made sure to sit as far away from the blond as decently possible and not fall off. He took the tea with a muttered thanks.

The drink was still too hot to sip, so he had nothing to do save curl his chilled hands around the mug, and let the warmth seep into him, and nothing to talk about (not that he was ever the sort for small talk). Hence, his mind had plenty of chances to think, analyze and generally to be very worried about the sudden talent he just discovered a few hours ago.

Which was why he found himself awake and decidedly crabby at four a.m. in the first place.

_But.__ . why worry? _That voice sounded insidious, mocking, and a bit too much like how he sounded to the rest of the world; cold and sneering. _Isn't it another weapon in your arsenal to be used against the world that_ _took your sister away from you? Granted, it's too late to use it against Takatori, but there'll be other Dark Beasts. . .other monsters to kill. . .other scum. . plenty of them._

Long, tapered, elegant fingers flexed slightly. His first, at least he was sure that was the first time he had done it, demonstration of. . .magic, was to erect a barrier. A 'kekkai' as that Tsuzuki called it.

A barrier made to protect. To shield.

He could have used it when Takatori mowed down his sister like so much garbage.

"So." The blond stretched lazily only to slouch, if it was possible, even further in his chair. "Was that party trick a first occurrence, or are you really an ass and have been hiding that particular talent from the rest of us?"

Aya let out an oath, having scalded the roof of his mouth with a hasty gulp of hot tea. He glared at a smiling Balinese. "And why," the kenkaku snarled, "would it be of concern to _you_?"

Kudoh gave an easy roll of his shoulders. "Maybe it's because we're supposed to be a team, and teammates are not supposed to have secrets from each other. At least, not the kind that could have helped us out in the past."

Still glaring, the redhead tried to find any flaw in that reasoning, if only to wipe that infuriatingly lazy smile of the blond's face. But he had to concede defeat finally, and his sour tones showed it. "That was the first," he admitted grudgingly. "And no, I don't have any idea how I did it or why I could in the first place."

"Alright," Kudoh said simply. "Maybe you should take up Tsuzuki-san's offer for training. Could be of use in the future. Say, maybe when insane, albino doctors decide to send us more curses or something?" His tone was light, teasing and held absolutely no censure.

Taken aback by the effortless acceptance, Aya frowned suspiciously, certain that an inappropriate follow-up was in the making. Only to be rather disappointed by the lack of a verbal target to vent his simmering frustrations on.

The blond had gone back to a careful study of the depths of his own mug, long legs sprawled out. The man himself was clad only in a pair of cotton pants, their worn state a testament to the fact that Kudoh himself was a sucker for comfortable pajamas. Unbidden, Aya's violet eyes tracked the lean lines of the man – with his summer coloring and a height that easily dwarfed the other Weiss, even him, Kudoh fit the image of his codename: all svelte smoothness that hid a surprising strength. He should know, having endured the courtesy of a few undignified fireman's carries when his injuries due to a mission were incapacitating.

Sudden, fierce anger throbbed through him, pounding behind his eyelids and he ignored the fact that his words were perhaps delivered too sharply. "You met Matsumada and Shiozaki before today, didn't you?"

Half-lidded green eyes met his challenging stare indolently, further sparking the stressed out redhead's temper. Teeth grinding, Aya waited, impatient, as Kudoh finally decided to grace him with an answer.

"Bishounen," Kudoh drawled. "Shiozaki is as pretty in the light of day as he was that night. So is Matsumada, don't you think? Though Shiozaki wasn't that. . ." Kudoh made the universal gesture for 'crazy', something dark and disturbed in his eyes.

Narrowing darkened violet eyes, Aya bit out, "So you make it a habit to compromise our situation by letting your hormones overrule your mind? If you have one," he added bitterly.

"Fuck you, Fujimiya." The insult, delivered in perfectly flat tones raised his hackles. The wire man slammed his mug down on the opposite chair, droplets of tea flying everywhere, the sharp motion a violent contrast to his even voice. "Do you actually think I'd be stupid enough to jeopardize our work just for a lay? No matter how good it could be? Any fool could see that those four knew about us long before we knew about them, so don't you dare lay the blame on me just because _you_ thought _you _screwed up!"

Aya shot to his feet, his own mug crashing to the floor and soaking the hem of his pants with hot liquid. "Fuck you!" he screamed. "I did not screw up! Ken should have been more careful! And Omi should have fucking well been on his guard, especially on a recon! Now look what happened! We've been compromised! How long do you think it would take before Kritiker takes action! Weiss has been found out!"

Even before he finished his tirade, Kudoh got to his feet as well, glaring right back at him, refusing to back down.

"Don't you dare lay this on Kenken and Omitchi, you bastard!" Kudoh shouted, finger jabbing Aya's chest at every other word. "Yes, we've been compromised and who the hell knows whose fault it was? And since it slipped your mind, you bastard, it's not them! You confirmed it yourself; Birman knows about them. Hell, she's even used them herself for this crazy shit situation we've gotten ourselves into! It's that crazy motherfucker who slashed Omi that you should be worrying about! What we should do is damage control and you're not helping any, oh I'm-such-a-perfect-team-leader-Fujimiya, by being such a blind ass!"

With an inarticulate scream of rage, Aya threw himself at the blond and both of them went crashing down on the floor in a tangle of limbs. There was no finesse or form to the fight – it was an honest to goodness, flat out brawl, and for a long moment, there was only the occasional gasp and swearing to punctuate their near-silent scuffle. Aya had always prided himself on being an honorable fighter; years of dedicating himself to the sword could not let him be anything but. But Kudoh had grown up on the streets; a man hardened by a game that was sure to kill off the weakest. Only the strong survived, honor be damned, and the few times the blond got into close combat without his wire, his fighting style showed it with a savagery that used every trick that could be employed.

And soon enough, with the swordsman nearly incoherent with rage, spoiling his usual deadly skills, Kudoh was straddling him, pinning him down on the kitchen floor with both of his arms pulled back at a painful angle.

"What the hell is your problem, Abyssinian?" the former P.I. snapped, even as he refused to relinquish his hold.

When the blond only got a muffled curse in response, Kudoh grinned, eyes wild with leftover adrenalin. "Wrong answer, Abyssinian," he sang out and pulled harder.

It took a few more minutes of useless struggle before Aya gave up. Slumping to the ground, shoulders burning, Aya rested his cheek against the cool ceramic tiles and closed his eyes. "Fuck you, Kudoh," he repeated wearily.

There was a moment's hesitation before Kudoh released his arms and got off of him but Aya did nothing save to just let his tired, bruised and aching body lie sprawled on the floor. His teammate slid to his side, facing Aya and leaning against the wall.

"What's wrong, Aya?" Kudoh asked again but this time, there was something. . .indefinable in his voice. A certain. . .perhaps, genuine caring that tried to break through the stubborn swordsman's defenses. "You've been acting weird ever since. . ." Kudoh broke off, and what little illumination spilled from the hallway beyond the kitchen showed a faint flush to the playboy's cheeks.

Ever since Aya-chan.

For a long time, there was only the hum of the fridge motor and the distant yowl of an alley cat. But the cold finally managed to prod Aya into sitting up, resting his back against the lower kitchen cabinets. Even as he settled himself into a more comfortable position, the blond had already taken a clean hand towel from one of the drawers and had made a neat ice pack. Before Aya could protest, he sat on the floor next to the weary swordsman, pack in hand and a wordless question in his gaze.

The redhead nodded once, stiffly. With a small smile, one which lacked any overt emotion Aya could pin down and act on, Balinese set the ice pack gently at the corner of his left eye, which he just then noticed stung quite a bit.

"We shouldn't let that bruise swell," Balinese said quietly, the faintest of breath warm on Aya's cheek – a delicious contrast to the cold ice numbing his eye. "It'd be a pity to mar such beauty."

Aya glanced up sharply, ignoring the soft admonition as the pack slipped. He locked eyes with the man, but that verdant gaze held nothing but plain honesty and. . . .admiration? Scowling, he cursed Balinese inwardly. Anger, he could deal with. Animosity, easy enough. But appreciation? His time with Crashers had exposed him to the other side of Kritiker; where espionage and intrigue was just an effective weapon as a blade and sex was used as often as his katana.

But not when it concerned one of his team members.

It disconcerted the usually cool Abyssinian to realize that his side practically burned with the man's heat. Aya shifted awkwardly, muttering a gruff thanks.

"No problem," Kudoh replied easily.

Only when the ice had partially melted, and running cold rivulets down the side of his face did the blond draw away, discarding the rest of the ice in the sink. With his back to Aya, he said, softly, "It wasn't your fault."

"What wasn't?" he asked, distracted by the play of shadows on Balinese's broad back.

"Aya-chan."

Abyssinian stiffened, before a sudden burst of motion had him on his feet again. "Listen, y- "

"We're not blind, Aya." The blond finally turned to face him, leaning negligently against the sink. "Your focus has been practically non-existent since then. We all knew you were one angry bastard when you joined Weiss - " the fact that there was no rancour in the former P.I.'s words made it possible for Aya to ignore the jibe. "But this is getting out of control."

The swordsman stood silent, fists clenched and refusing to meet Yohji's steady gaze. Getting no answer from his teammate, Yohji continued, gently. "You're a good leader, Abyssinian. And someone we can rely on as a member of Weiss but lately, your rage is just. . .all over the place. Poor Kenken is terrified of you now. And," he added quietly, "this has nothing to do with your new talent."

That rebuke, no matter how gently it was delivered, stung. And it hurt because deep inside, Aya _knew_ it was the truth. Before, it was easy to corral his fury and direct it to where it was deserved: Takatori and later on, Eszett. But now, without a target, without a _purpose_ in life, he was lost. And he hated it.

He had failed Aya-chan. How long would it take before he would fail Yohji? Or Ken? Or Omi-kun whose large, guileless eyes reminded him so badly of the sister he'd lost?

As though his thoughts were read, Balinese said, "It's not your fault."

Aya jerked his head up, lips thinned with denial.

"It's not," Kudoh insisted. The wire man pushed off from the sink to cross the small distance between them and bemusement allowed the blond to invade his personal space, for hands with roughened fingers to settle with care on his shoulders. "You've avenged your family. And we brought Eszett down. But that does not mean you have nothing left. You have us. Weiss. Ken, Omi and me. _We_ need you and _you haven't failed us_. But–" he hesitated, summer green eyes earnest, "You will, if you keep on like this."

He could not deny that. Not when he dreamt variations of it every damn night. He had seen his team members fall in missions against Dark Beasts who loomed gigantic over them like _raksha_, too strong to be fought and they all fell in bloodied heaps while he watched helpless, caged by his own mind. He had watched as his sister gave a tentative smile, an offering, and he turned it down and pushed her away because he could and would soil her innocence with his taint.

Oh, the irony of it. To walk down the path of blood to save the one whom he had given up everything for, only to realize that at the end of that road, he had sacrificed too much to ever walk in the light again.

And he knew that it was only a matter of time before he, Abyssinian, would fail to keep his team safe - that they might tread in the Darkness so that others might live blameless in the Light.

Before Weiss would be lost.

He would fail them. Amida butsu aide him, but he would and then he'd be alone again, just like before, when Aya-chan would not wake up despite his pleading, would not open her eyes would not move would not grip his hand back would not—

"–Aya?"

The voice was soft. Concerned. Caring.

It scalded him like hot water.

He jerked his arm back and only just managed to rein in the savage fury that insisted he swing out and slice the offender from shoulder to hip. The fact that he didn't have his katana in hand registered not a moment too soon, as well as other, minor little details – that his opponent was shirtless, wearing nothing but pants and had hair the color of old gold dipped in shadows.

Balinese. Kudoh Yohji. Not an enemy.

"You should get some sleep," he rasped, not meeting the man's forest-shade eyes in case the wildness within his own was witnessed. "You have the morning shift tomorrow and I'm not going to cover your ass again."

That generous mouth which so often could be found curled lovingly around a cigarette was pulled into a frown, and he looked away, disconcerted. That, and the eyes. Because the eyes saw.

"Stop avoiding the issue, Abyssinian," Kudoh snapped. He was reaching out again, wanting to touch, to hold, to establish a physical link and that was the one thing the agitated swordsman could do without.

Like quicksilver, he evaded, and was almost out of the kitchen and on the first tread of the stairs before he threw back over his shoulder, "8 a.m. Kudoh. You have first shift."

* * *

**Gladiolus – **Strength of character

* * *

**A/N: Review. You know you want to.**


	18. Monozuki 18: Omi and Scarlet Geraniums

**Monozuki** **-** An Idle Curiosity

_A Weiss Kreuz/Yami no Matsuei crossover._

**By Lisa**

**Monozuki** **18 - Omi and Scarlet Geranium**

* * *

Dozing over a cup of hot cocoa, Omi jerked awake at the sound of the flower shop's bell jingling; he hadn't meant to doze off, but the whole cursed wound/cursed kitchen business had left him tired to the bone. The now-tepid liquid sloshed onto the check-out counter, staining the corner of an account ledger pale brown and making him curse - but under his breath so that it wouldn't spoil his Good Boy image - when it hit him: the shop was still closed; there shouldn't be anyone jingling anything. Least of all the bell on the front door.

Omi had palmed a lethal sliver of steel from the hidden sheath on his belly and readied himself for a sudden dive to the cover of the floral arranging table, before his half-conscious brain registered tousled dark hair and a rumpled black trench-coat. 'Tsuzuki,' that ever-helpful voice at the back of his brain supplied. It also blithely pointed out that the man had previously waltzed into the Koneko's communal kitchen through a state-of-the-art security system, so the guy couldn't be as clueless as his wide-eyed expression suggested. Omi's lips thinned grimly, _Well, two can play at_ **_that_** _game._ **_I_** _can be innocent, too…_ then tipped upward in a bright, welcoming smile. "Oh, Tsuzuki-san… you startled me. Your friends aren't here any more. They left a while ago."

"Oh? Well, you see…" Tsuzuki ran a sheepish hand through his long bangs, pushing them back from eyes that shone guilelessly. "To be truthful, you were the person I was hoping to find. I only wanted to make sure that there were no unpleasant side-effects from what happened earlier… but you weren't upstairs."

_Ouch…_ He'd sort of hoped that no one had noticed him quietly slinking away, but the comment did serve to reinforce the young hacker's initial impression that the outwardly bumbling man was a lot sharper than he looked. Caught red-handed, there was no point in denying the observation, and Omi grimaced. "Um, no… I… came down here for a little peace and quiet." Some of the hot chocolate dripped onto the knee of his thread-bare jeans. Thank all the gods that it was a holiday and they had an excuse to open late, and keep all the fan girls out. Hastily, Omi mopped at the spill and counted his blessings that none of them were around to 'help' him clean up.

"Ah." The tall brunet nodded as if that explained everything, and no further words would be necessary. They probably weren't; the continuing quarrel upstairs was faintly audible right through the shop's ceiling. Most of the ranting was Yohji's, but Aya wasn't helping. Every time the older Weiss would start to run down, the team's resident misanthrope would stick in some bitter, cutting comment, and start the whole mess over again. Occasionally, Ken's frustrated growl interjected something, but Omi had no idea if the other boy was helping or hindering the communication process, and it was giving him a migraine trying to decide. It was almost as if there was a whole other conversation underway than the one that was being spoken out loud, some subtext between his oldest teammates that served as a goad when the whole thing should have been over and done with at least an hour ago. He had no idea how Ken could still be sticking it out.

Tsuzuki had taken advantage of Omi's introspection to dump his loosely folded coat over the register, and to drag over another stool. He perched on it, for once looking less yakuza-like, and more like a worn-out salaryman at the end of a grueling work-week. His chin was planted in the palm of one hand, and the elbow was perched precariously on the end of the high counter, making him look one step short of falling asleep.

It was hard to be on the defensive, when the man acted like that, but Omi had no delusions that the stranger was both powerful and dangerous.

"If it's any consolation," Tsuzuki offered mildly, "Hisoka was almost ready to throttle my companions, which is why he went home in a huff. Soka-chan doesn't suffer what he considers to be idiocy very well." Pursing his lips, he seemed to consider that statement from all angles for a moment, then he chuckled and added, "I have no idea why he puts up with me. Must be because he loves me."

Nonplussed, Omi blinked at that. _Loves…?_ Well… he _had_ noticed that the strange team seemed to take togetherness to new levels; he hadn't been unconscious the whole time, after all. But it did seem a little… odd… that not only the doctor and his weird _koi_ were close, but also the blond angel and the too-gentle yakuza. It made Omi wonder if his own partners would function better if there were something more than the killing missions of Kritiker to bind them together. It was certainly a thought that deserved a little more consideration - but not just now. The violent slam of the door at the top of the stairs, and the rapid pounding of feet on their way down warned him that just at the moment, 'love' was not the thought at the forefront of at least one of his teammate's minds.

Ken roared through the store like a whirlwind, ball and cleats in one hand, his motorcycle helmet in the other, and a ferocious scowl on his face. As he passed, he snarled, "I am _sick_ of listening to those two bitch. See ya, Omi-kun." Then the front door's bell jangled, and the portal slammed with enough force that the steel shutters over the shop's windows rattled in sympathy.

Upstairs, another crash signaled that one, the other, or both of the remaining Weiss had retreated to his room to lick his wounds. Omi sighed. At least that meant that it would be quiet for a little while… "Ne, would you like a cup of cocoa? It's only instant, until we get the kitchen fixed back up, but it's hot and sweet."

Tsuzuki's face brightened instantly at the apologetic offer, and he fumbled for the pocket of his discarded coat. "I'd like that. Care for _an_ _pan_? I picked them up at that little grocery store up the street." The small paper box was a little squashed, but the sweet bean paste buns inside were still fresh and intact, their golden brown skins smooth and unblemished, the little salted cherry blossom belly button' perfect. As were the sesame seed topped _shiro_ _an pan._ They made Omi's mouth water instantly, but he had to wonder at the sight of an adult grinning like a loon with childish anticipation. Tsuzuki pushed the carton over, letting the younger blond have first choice.

As he picked at random, Omi thought sadly that it was too bad that he couldn't be doing this with his own partners, instead of the equally genki member of an outside group that had invaded Weiss' sanctuary. It wasn't even that Tsuzuki and his companions knew way too much about the Hunters' business for comfort, it was that a pang of what could only be described as jealousy ran through the little tactician. Why couldn't he get past the feeling that it was only Kritiker that kept them together? That if they didn't have missions to force them to cooperate, the others would all go their separate ways, and leave him behind? Sometimes, it sucked being the junior member in age, but pretty much the oldest in maturity.

But that was a problem for another day. Just now, the answer to a lot of his _other_ questions was sitting across the counter from him, murmuring _hana, mana, mona, mike_ under his breath to decide which bun to devour. The hacker rolled his eyes and took a deep breath. Somewhere, somehow, somebody owed him big time for this. Sliding off the stool, he headed for the back and the electric kettle full of hot water. The box of cocoa mix envelopes were still sitting out where he'd left them, but for a mug he was forced to swipe Yohji's favorite with its rude American slogan of _I'd walk a mile for a Camel… and a hundred for a Bunny._ The buxom, cartoon woman with bunny ears always made Omi cringe, but Tsuzuki didn't seem to notice when it was set down in front of him with a clatter of ceramic on Formica. He just grinned and took a noisy slurp, then yelped and fanned his tongue. The baffled Hunter shook his head and hopped back up onto his own seat.

"I've been going back through the files." Omi said carefully around a mouthful of _an_ _pan_. "That man, the one that you said touched off the whole thing? Yes, we did have a mission to eliminate someone like that. And the evidence was pretty damning that not only did he use his money to influence politicians, but that his restaurant was a front for a very old and long established bordello. By itself, running a house of prostitution wouldn't have been enough to bring him to Kritiker's attention, but there were also indications that he was somehow tied to the disappearances and mutilation deaths of a number of young women. The police never found direct evidence, and Mibu-san had alibis for many of the deaths, but there was definitely some connection. Given all of this, I can't understand why you apparently think the man didn't deserve what he got from us."

Uncomfortable, the stranger perched in the Koneko fidgeted, then heaved a troubled sigh. "We… Hisoka and I… we met Oriya-san several years ago during… a matter that went badly." Distress warred with the need to speak, and Tsuzuki was silent so long that Omi thought he wasn't going to elaborate. Then, reluctantly, as if every word were being dragged out of him by force, he continued. "Everything you've said, was true about Mibu Oriya, except that he was only acting to conceal his lover's indiscretions. The one responsible for the horrible deaths of those young women was Muraki-sensei. In point of fact, Oriya-san tried very hard to walk the thin line between protecting the person he cared for, and doing what was honorable and right. When I was in trouble… he… gave Soka the means to find me, and wished him good fortune. I owed him a debt of gratitude for that. And, as the years went by, he was often the only force capable of reigning in Muraki's more murderous tendencies. Now that he's gone, I'm very much afraid that there is nothing left that will temper Muraki-sensei's insanity."

A chill ran down Omi's spine. Had he and his companions only survived two attacks by the same murderous madman because Tsuzuki and his friends had intervened? Had they really unleashed the sociopath? Or, was the man in white a psychopath? Mind skittering away from the unpleasant thought that they were in some fashion responsible, the Weiss researcher mumbled, "Which is he? Muraki? A sociopath or a psychopath?"

Tsuzuki snorted, a faint smile hovering on his mobile features. "I'm afraid my familiarity with the psychiatric community is a little too dated to answer that question." He waved a sweet bun in Omi's direction. "What's of greater importance is that regardless of what form of mental illness he suffers from, Muraki is a brilliant man, and a powerful practitioner of some very dangerous arts. And he's decided to focus that awesome intellect on tormenting and killing you and your friends. I think we can safely say that your only hope lies in persuading your friends to accept our help."

"And you just expect us to believe what you say? Without proof?" Swiftly, Omi shot back the demand. A look of long-suffering frustration flitted across Tsuzuki's face.

"But we _did_ help you." he protested. "You know that Taka healed you - you were there. And even though your kitchen is a bit of a mess, the curse was broken without killing anyone, and that certainly wouldn't have been the case without our assistance."

True… The way that insignificant cut across his stomach had bled wasn't natural, and it had been the doctor's intervention that had saved him. Omi was more than sufficiently familiar with life-threatening injuries to know that, against all reason, the wound he'd taken would have been fatal. And it wasn't that he wasn't grateful for the rescue; he was. Honest. But it just went against his nature to trust on some strange guy's say-so, no matter how genki and innocent he might act. Omi rubbed a tired hand over his face, and pinched at the bridge of his nose; it didn't help that all he really wanted was a chance to crawl into bed and sleep for a week… Which reminded him that the window in his bedroom was still boarded over, and that it was the fault of the beautiful partner of this nut with his wrinkled suit and crooked tie.

"Wait, wait…" The petit tactician made a time-out' sign with both hands. "How do I know that we really needed you? Aya-kun made one of those whatever-you-call-em's to protect himself and Yohji-kun when the kitchen blew up. An explosion, I'd like to point out, that you said _you_ caused by underestimating what would detonate that bomb-curse-thing."

"Kekkai." Tsuzuki replied promptly. "A shield like that, made of hardened chi, is called a kekkai.' And if we hadn't tried to dismantle Muraki's curse, it would have damaged a lot more than just your kitchen."

Deliberately, Omi chose to ignore the whisper from his hind-brain that said, _He's probably right. Gut-reaction, there'd probably be a crater right where you're sitting if those guys hadn't tried to defuse it._ That was beside the point. So long as he could keep the man on the defensive, Tsuzuki might let a few real answers slip. Omi wasn't stupid; he could see plain as day that no matter how sincere and forthcoming the older man might act, there was a whole world of information that he was carefully avoiding putting on the table. And it also didn't negate the worried, gut-tightening feeling he got every time he thought about what Yohji said Aya had done, down there in the kitchen. The teen leaned back on his stool and folded his arms across his thin chest, putting on the mulish look that generally worked wonders when he saw the need to skip school and work on a project, and Yohji was in a mood to be all parental and make the youngest Weiss go to class. "Oh? And just how _did_ Aya-kun know to make a kekkai?' Are you going to tell me that he's tapped into some nasty arts, too, like your Muraki-sensei? Hmm?"

"Well…" Tsuzuki ran an uncomfortable hand back through his untidy hair and prevaricated. "Faith is a strong force. And your Aya-kun did call out for Buddha's protection…" Omi folded his arms more tightly and glared, and finally, the older man threw up his hands. "Okay, okay! I agree. Faith will only take you so far. It requires real ability to call up a kekkai like that based only on _need_. Yes, I think that Aya-kun has some true power. But that does not need to be a thing of evil. To be able to tap into the currents that surround us is… is no more a bad thing than being able to plug a lamp into an electrical socket. The electricity is neither good nor evil, and the same is true of the lamp. What matters is what you _do_ with it, once it's lit." Warming to his analogy, Tsuzuki gestured expansively. "The light may serve a surgeon performing a delicate operation to save someone's life, or it may illuminate an embezzler's work" " At the stony stare leveled at him by Omi's steady blue eyes, the man flushed and coughed weakly. "Er… you see my point, I take it."

"Yeah." Omi sighed. "I suppose so. I was just worried that he'd gone over to the Dark Side. We've had run-ins with another group - sort-of like ours, but a lot nastier - over the past couple of years, and _they_ all have these weird, psychic abilities. But I suppose being able to bend spoons with your mind isn't inherently a bad thing, and maybe Schwarz is evil because they had crappy home lives when they were kids. I just don't know anymore. But it _does_ scare me to have Aya-kun suddenly go all super-powered on us."

"Omi-kun…" Tsuzuki said gently. "I think it's in his blood. Those people who tried to abduct his sister, and use her for a ritual, they did so because of what she was. And as her brother, I think Aya-kun has the same potential. If for no other reason… than he has the same eyes as me. When I was a child, I was shunned because there were those who believed that purple eyes were the mark of demonic blood. That may not have been entirely true, but it is a fact that these are indicative of those who are not completely as normal as humans are." As he spoke, his fingers crept up to cage the sad eyes that stared down at the smaller teen and for a moment, the nails dug in cruelly around the orbs. Then he smiled ruefully, and dropped his hands into his lap. "But power is only a tool. What matters is how you use it."

_How you use it…_ Wasn't that the same argument that Omi had used to himself to explain how and why it was okay for Weiss to slaughter their targets? Sympathy made him examine more closely the slumped figure across the counter, and wonder what Tsuzuki had seen to put such a look of pain and sorrow onto a face made for cheerful smiles. Perhaps… the strangers weren't all that different, after all.

The last of the buns had disappeared into the bottomless pit of the older man by the time Omi shook himself all over and said briskly, "Okay. Let's get down to the bargaining. You're offering to help us - fine, but what are you expecting in return?"

The lowered veil of long lashes flickered back up and a broad grin split Tsuzuki's face. "I take it that this means that you believe us?"

"Well…" hesitating, the teen gave a small shrug. "If you'd asked me a couple of days ago, I'd have said 'no way.' But now… Yeah, weird things have been happening, and there's no denying that someone tried to kill us. I'd be stupid not to take help when I can get it. Speaking of which, I would like to know a bit more about your relationship with, um, 'Catherine-san.' Matsumada-sensei sounded like he knew her pretty well."

Omi watched carefully as a flicker of apprehension, almost too tiny to be sure of, crossed the would-be yakuza's guileless features. There was something there that Tsuzuki would rather not address, and that alone was enough to raise his interrogator's determination. Omi was willing to extend a kind of 'professional courtesy' to the outsiders, and not examine too closely the kinds of questions that he'd rather not have to answer about Weiss, like 'who do you work for?' But knowing just how close they were to Birman would do wonders toward easing his mind - especially after he'd gotten confirmation that Tsuzuki was telling the truth from the Kritiker handler.

The tall man took a deep breath and straightened from his careless slouch, his harmless mask falling away as he - finally! - opted to lay his cards on the table. The warm voice was deadly serious and low as he admitted, "We work for an organization not too dissimilar from yours, only our cases are most often supernatural in nature. Rather than fall into competition when our jurisdiction intersects with that of the police, or with private organizations such as yours, it's been policy for a long time to cooperate when possible. I think it's been mutually beneficial, since our skills are a little too specialized for most groups to invest in, and often the referral that we receive concerning a problem of a spiritual nature will give us the break that we need in one of our cases."

"So… you're what? Exorcists for hire?" the blond hacker asked slowly. The last of his childishness had been stripped away by a look of thoughtful calculation. "Not law enforcement, I'm guessing, because you talk about the police as 'them,' not 'us.' "

"Aa." Slurping noisily at the dregs of his hot chocolate, Tsuzuki nodded. "Depending on the situation, we usually refer to ourselves as onmyouji, or as yamabushi. Like you, we can be Hunters." At the last, the pain returned to his gentle eyes, thinning his expressive mouth and tightening the long fingers that wrapped around the ceramic until the knuckles went white and Omi worried that he'd have to explain how the Bunny mug had gotten broken to the older blond. Then Tsuzuki's head snapped back up, and he met the teen's startled blue eyes directly. Fiercely, he said, "The worst thing is when those who are guilty of nothing more than being late have to die."

Startled by the man's vehemence, Omi reflected for an instant that the lazy looking stranger had more in common with Aya than just his violet eyes; the Weiss swordsman would hiss just like that over the _wrongness_ of sacrificing the innocent - and then he would do whatever he saw as his duty anyway. "Ooo-kay… So, what's an onmyouji, and a yama…bushi?" Cautiously, the wary blond wrapped his tongue around the unfamiliar words, and was relieved to see the hurt fury fade.

Tsuzuki accepted the tacit cease-fire with a small relaxing of the bunched shoulders within his crumpled suit-coat, and his voice was nearly normal, as if he were only explaining some odd terminology rather than talking about himself. He said earnestly, "Onmyoujitsu practitioners use Taoist principles of yin and yang to work spells. Sanskrit and symbolism, both written and verbal, form the structure for the casting of magic. Originally, onmyouji were concerned mainly with divination, but they became the protectors of the Imperial capitol during the Heian period. Yamabushi are Buddhist ascetic monks. They use both the martial arts and esoteric Buddhist scriptures. We, my companions and I, what we do is a fusion of both disciplines, and bits of other systems, as well."

"Sugoi…" Omi breathed, impressed in spite of himself. The hint of structure and form was intriguing - almost like the nearly organic feel of a well-written computer program. The idea that spells might be slung like programming code was briefly distracting, and it took an effort of will for the hacker to get his mind back on track. But before he could press Tsuzuki for more details, the clatter of hard-soled boots on the stairs made him roll his eyes; honestly, for a bunch of assassins, his teammates could be incredibly _loud_.

The owner of the offending foot-ware, all six-feet-two-inches of him, slouched through the back door and into the shop proper, only to halt beside the cash register with one hip cocked out at a provocative angle, and his sunglasses at half mast. "Yo, Omitchi." the older blond drawled.

"Hi, Yohji-kun." Omi replied warily. It didn't pay to stick his neck out until he tested the waters a bit, and right now, they were looking down-right shark-infested. The lanky playboy had poured himself into jeans that were every bit as old and frazzled as the teen's, but where Omi's were snug because the boy had finally managed to shoot up a couple of inches, Yohji's were designed that way. From low-slung waist with its chunky belt, to the hems that flared over a set of scuffed boots best suited for kicking street punks, the pants screamed 'trouble.' The tight, midriff baring sleeveless tee that had been scrounged from somewhere exuded just as much bad attitude with its slogan of 'Live Fast, Die Young, Leave a Good-Looking Corpse.'

Definitely a sign that it would be a good day to keep conversation to a minimum.

Normally, Yohji was laid back and easy to get along with; almost too lazy to get worked up about anything. That Aya had managed to provoke him meant that the older Weiss would be aiming to go out, get drunk, and find some entertainment - and not necessarily in that order. As the tactician of the group, Omi knew when it was time to cut and run, but his guest obviously didn't. Tsuzuki ran a considering eye over the tall Hunter, and sent both brows into hiding behind his perpetually mussed chestnut-brown bangs. "I recognize that-" Surprised, he gestured at Yohhi's worm tee-shirt. "A friend of mine is fond of old American movies. That's from _Knock on Any Door._"

"Yeah… 1949. John Derek played Nick Romano - and Humphrey Bogart was the attorney who tried to get him off. The movie's a dog; quote's about the only good thing in it." There was a subtle challenge to the blond's tone as he shook a cigarette out of the pack that had been jammed into his back pocket, but Tsuzuki only grinned affably.

"True, true…" Still nodding, he spread his hands helplessly. "Not everything Bogart starred in was of good quality. I'm afraid I was never a big movie buff."

The apologetic tone won him a piercing stare from the ex-P.I. but Yohji let slide the question of what one of the potential enemy was doing sitting down for cocoa and snacks with a member of his own team. Instead, he growled, "Tell Matsumada he's on. I'll meet him at that club tonight. And he'd better not blow me off."

Whirling, he waved a hand carelessly over his shoulder at Omi and strode for the back door and the alley where his car was parked. Omi twisted about on his stool, his protest of _But what about your shift…_ dying unspoken. It looked as if the Koneko wouldn't be opening up for the afternoon, after all.

A polite cough drew the younger Hunter's attention back to the _other_ tall man, Tsuzuki sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. "Ne, I should probably get going too, before 'Soka gets annoyed with me. I'll give Kudoh-san's message to Taka; I just hope that they aren't going to go and get into too much trouble."

"Wait- " Desperate, Omi almost reached across the counter and snagged the wrinkled black sleeve, only stopping himself at the last moment. For some reason, he didn't want the kind man to leave - and that by itself was enough to make him pause; _why_ would the thought of being left alone generate an ache in his gut?

Quizzical purple eyes met Omi's unflinchingly, and it was the boy who flushed and abruptly turned away, lowering his gaze to the tiled floor. "Sorry," the teen muttered. "I know you're busy. I just… wanted to finish working out the details on how we're going to combine forces against Muraki-sensei."

The boy didn't even sense the older man's approach until a warm, gentle hand settled on top of his head, stroking his blond locks. The sweet scent of fresh baked pastries made Omi suddenly want to cry. Tsuzuki murmured softly, "Don't worry. We'll be back. And I wouldn't spend too much time thinking about what it will cost; we'll help you because Muraki-sensei has to be stopped. Not because we expect repayment. Understand?" Tremulous, Omi managed a tiny nod under that tender caress, and the self-proclaimed onmyouji continued, his voice low and hypnotic. "You still need to rest some more, to finish recovering. Why don't you go lie down a little? We can always discuss this when your friends are ready to be more objective."

Eyelids drooping, Omi yawned. A nap _did_ sound good… and it wasn't as if he could settle things without talking it over with the others, anyway. Knowing his teammates, Ken and Yohji both would be back after they'd worked off a little of their ire - Ken by playing soccer, and Yohji by driving too fast and smoking an entire pack of cigarettes. That would be soon enough to propose an alliance against a common enemy to them. "Hm. Yeah. Sleep's good…" Another jaw-cracking yawn stole over him, and he wobbled to his feet. But lingering distress still made the smaller teen peer up anxiously and ask, "You _will_ come back, right?"

"Hai, hai." Chuckling, Tsuzuki agreed, gently propelling the skinny teen in the direction of the stairs. Omi barely had the presence of mind to balk long enough to send the man out the back door and lock it after him, before he staggered up to his messy bedroom.

A last thought crept into Omi's mind as sleep turned his thin body limp and boneless: …_there are those who believe that purple eyes were the mark of demonic blood._

Aya?

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

_For more than you might want to know about Japanese filled buns and what they look like, scroll down to the review of_ **Ginza** **Kimura-ya Tokyo Bakery and Café.** _Yummy_

http: (slash-slash) onokinegrindz. typepad. com /onokinegrindz /2004 /07/

_All of this has also reminded me that I've had several people complain about the spellings of some adjectives, so it's about time that I offer some explanation. This is my official disclaimer that I use the French conventions of the masculine forms of petit, brunet, and blond in describing the boys. I know English isn't gender-specific, but I'm used to a language that is. I gag every time I see a word like "brunette" because that implies that the person so described is female._

**Scarlet Geranium** - Friendship; comforting; kindness

**Kelly says: **Er...totally my fault this chapter went up late. It was done ages ago and it just...slipped my mind...gomen!


	19. Monozuki 19: Tatsumi and Delphinium

**Monozuki** – An Idle Curiosity

_A Weiss Kreuz/Yami no Matsuei crossover._

**By Kelly**

**Monozuki** **19 – Tatsumi and Delphinium**

* * *

Tatsumi Seiichiro's desk was clean of any detritus, edges aligned perfectly and at right angles, as all inanimate objects serving his craft should be. The dark green blotter had seen faithful service for almost eight years now. He was confident that the velvet could see another two before he would have to, regretfully, replace it.

He ruled the budget with an iron fist, but that did not mean he would be content with low quality merchandise, either for himself, or the Shinigami of the Shokan. Defective products only drove the budget higher in the long run with maintenance and replacement costs. Better to have a high, initial investment that would yield constant, dependable performance.

Of course, Tsuzuki and Watari liked to point out that staff productivity also depended on a healthy daily assignment allowance, with a minimum of three-star accommodations that would ensure peak output.

Tatsumi countered those admittedly sound reasonings with the quarterly damage reports as well as the rising, year-on-year laboratory costs.

No, not even for his beloved koibito would Tatsumi Seiichiro compromise the Shokan's borderline-red-budget.

Today though, the Secretary, rumored-to-be-the-real-power-of-the-Shokan, had a specific dissatisfaction with his colleagues. The object of his ire marred the perfect blankness of his dark green, darker-trimmed blotter with its presence. One long, elegantly tapered finger, nail perfectly buffed, tapped the offending article. It was a piece of yellow paper, your standard B5 measurement. Lined for the user's convenience even, which, this particular user seemed to have disdained as the words tended to follow a weaving pattern all over the page, front and back. If that wasn't bad enough, further offence was committed by the lack of a proper writing utensil. Oh no. Apparently, Tsuzuki Asato was beyond such implements like ballpoints or the elegant fountain pen.

Tsuzuki Asato, it seemed, preferred _crayons_.

There was a nervous cough, quickly hushed, followed by a rapid tapping of nail on wood which, thankfully, met a quick end when Tatsumi leveled a cool stare at the perpetrator.

"Gentlemen," he began, voice smooth and melodious. Watari, standing by the closed door of his office, turned a rewarding shade of red. The miscreants, well, sans Kurosaki-kun, turned a rewarding deathly pale. "I have here–" he paused for timely effect, "—your mission leader's report on the recent, malicious attack of a paranormal nature involving the four mortals known as Weiss."

His lips curled just the slightest in derisive amusement. Humans playing god and daring to name themselves pure.

"It boggles the mind, gentlemen, how an event of such import could warrant a mere, two-sided paper's worth, written down in simple _crayon_." Glacier blue eyes gleamed behind the flimsy barrier of wire-rimmed glasses, pinning the squirming wrongdoer under its weighty regard. "Tsuzuki-san? Perhaps you'd like to explain yourself?"

There was an _eep_. And most definitely a _squeak_. Followed by a _meep_.

"Kurosaki-kun," he tried instead. "What is your opinion of the new, regulatory kits for field missions?"

The young empath inclined his head respectfully. "Initial use has seen favourable results from field active Shinigami," Kurosaki replied in even tones, without a hint of buttering up. Tatsumi nodded in satisfaction. The young man was proving his initial assessment; Kurosaki Hisoka would make a fine successor. "Wastage has decreased by thirty-seven percent, spill containment increased by a marked twenty-three percent and initial mission report handover by forty-three percent. Case turnover has also increased by a staggering fifty-one percent and the Gushoushin have implemented the kit's standard reporting format for their level one filing."

Pleased, he sent the empath a rare, genuine smile of pleasure, eliciting a becoming flush to the normally pale skin. And earned a hiss of "_Traitor!_" from the blond's lanky partner.

"Katsumoto-san of the Peace Division have also sent encouraging feedback of the test kits we've provided their Demon Extermination squads," Kurosaki continued after shushing his partner with a glare that, if Tatsumi was not mistaken, promised a week's worth of sleeping on the couch if the brunet didn't. "They wish to initiate preliminary discussions to adopt the kit for their field units as well."

Leather creaked as he leaned back in his high-backed seat, pressing his hands together lightly. "And there you have it gentlemen," he said. "Conclusive evidence that the standard field kit has increased efficiency and cut costs by a remarkable fifty-seven percent. And yet. . .I have here, a non-standard format report, on non-regulation paper. Takashi-san."

The former sensei choked on air, and his partner enthusiastically pounded his back, only desisting when Kurosaki pointed out dryly that he was doing more harm than good.

"Yes–" Takashi cleared his throat, shooting the wide-eyed Kyo a glare. "Yes, Tatsumi-san?"

"I respect you as learned professional in the field of medicine, with a steady disposition. Someone worth listening to." With every praise, Takashi sank lower and lower in his seat, trying to meet his eyes and failing miserably. Kyo – and there was a time bomb just waiting to explode – seemed utterly amused by his husband's discomfort. Yes, he definitely needed to have that discussion with Enma-Daioh. "Perhaps _you _can explain to me the substandard recording of the mission's findings."

Takashi tugged nervously at the collar of the black turtleneck he wore, revealing glimpses of lightly tanned skin. "I. . .er. . ." Tatsumi caught the man's hazel green eyes, flecked with gold, and to his reluctant amusement, the former sensei blushed a fire engine red, mumbling something incoherent. _Ah, Takashi-san, _he sighed silently. How could he properly reprimand someone whose main crime was to get teamed up the Legendary Slacker, Tsuzuki Asato? Not to mention how. . .adorable, yes, adorable, Takashi could get with his rather obvious crush?

Tatsumi sighed, out loud this time. "Tsuzuki-san," he said crisply, and the brunet sat up straighter in attention. "You will re-do this, _properly_, or face field duty suspension for two weeks–"

"_Mean!_"

"—and Takashi-san, Watari-san requests your assistance in analyzing the spell resonance you've collected from Muraki's conjury."

Still blushing, Takashi took the dismissal gratefully, slinking out of his seat. Watari, who was entirely too pleased with the whole situation, slung a companionable arm around his lab-mate, chattering away.

"—and you won't believe what Johnny-kun Two can do! Just take a picture of the one you like, and it can _do _stuff–"

"Watari, shut up!"

Oh yes, just another day at the Shokan. Tatsumi exchanged looks with Kurosaki, whole messages conveyed without the use of telepathy. What need for it, between two minds that think alike?

"I will make sure Tsuzuki hands in the revised report before close of business, Tatsumi-san," Kurosaki murmured respectfully.

"Thank you, Kurosaki-kun," he nodded in appreciation. "Well, Tsuzuki-san? Why are you still here?" A raised eyebrow to prompt the man and Tsuzuki left with his metaphorical tail between his legs. That left. . .

"Kyo-kun," he sighed. "You'll spoil your teeth with all the chocolate you've been consuming."

"I'm dead," Kyo pointed out cheerfully, popping another chocolate ball. "I'll regenerate."

"And do you think Takashi-san enjoys his mate's rotting teeth before regeneration?" he asked reasonably.

He could see the little wheels turning, gears shifting and reluctantly accepting his logic as flawless. As if it could be otherwise.

"Okay," Kyo said mournfully, sliding out of his seat. "I'll go. . .drink some juice or something."

"Good boy." He waited until the door clicked shut, and a wisp of shadow flipped the lock, ensuring privacy. "The situation is not improving, is it, Kurosaki-kun?"

The blond shook his head slowly, gravity lending age to the youthful face. "No, it has not, Tatsumi-san," he said softly. "I fear if we leave the status quo as it is. . ."

He nodded. "Very well. Thank you for your time, Kurosaki-kun."

The shadows he ruled slithered out of their hiding place with the boy's departure, and they wrapped themselves around his form eagerly, twisting and twining, clamoring for his attention.

"Enough," he whispered. "Our Lord commands."

* * *

Enma, God of Death, the Immortal Judge, sat silently in his Hall, enjoying the moment of peace for what it was; a fragile, temporary gift. His ageless eyes saw beyond the fathomless dark that towered above, shot through with the birth, life and death of galaxies. He saw the beginning. And he saw the end.

"Seiichiro, beloved child." His smile could make stone weep with joy to be its recipient and Tatsumi nearly did; would have, if not for the deity's mercy and protection bestowed upon all Shinigami to enable them to stand strong in an Immortal's presence. "It has been too long."

"My apologies, Enma-sama," came the respectful whisper from the shadows clustered thickly behind his dais. There was, detectable to the deity's ears, a throb of longing in the low voice. But the man himself held back, duty his rigid armor.

Enma smiled.

"Beloved amongst all my beloved," he sighed, watching the dance of stars. "What troubles you?"

"Kyo and Takashi. . .it grows worse. It is a slow disease corrupting their sleep, robbing them of peace." Tatsumi hesitated, the enveloping cloak of darkness writhing agitatedly. "I fear we have no other choice but to–" The Death Seal imposed over fifteen years ago flared. Fifteen mortal years, barely a blink of an eye to an Immortal. A choked gasp. "F-forgive me, Enma-sama," Tatsumi said raggedly.

"No," he replied mournfully. "Forgive me, Seiichiro, for having to do such to you and my other children. It still pains me, to know that it was my hand that laid the Seal upon you."

"A necessity, Enma-sama."

_A necessity, Father_.

The deity sighed. _Ah, Amaterasu. He reminds me so much of you. I miss you, Child. Do you miss your Father who longs for your light, here in the world of spirits?_

_Always, Father._ _Always._

"One last chance," he said out loud. "One last chance before necessity. Izanami and Izanagi, my Children, would ask that boon of me."

A long silence, and a thousand galaxies died, and a thousand and one galaxies were birthed.

"I am only mortal, my lord," Tatsumi finally said, his words laced with true pain. "Only a man, and my judgment is flawed. But as a friend, as one of those who knows. . .I fear that one last chance may be too late."

He watched. And stars danced.

"And I fear. . .that you are right, beloved." The sorrow-laden sigh rang softly throughout the endless depths of the Hall of the Dead. "So be it. This is my Judgment."

A figure in white, clad in layered kimono, the face unseen. It/she/he bowed, and a ribbon of light glimmered between its /hers/his hands.

"Matsumada Takashi and Shiozaki Kyo. On this day of my Rule, on this hour of Judgment, let the records show that I have decreed thus; their Seals to be woven new, their memories, buried within. So I have decreed."

The figure bowed again and disappeared. Faintly, just at the threshold of mortal hearing, there was the thunder of hooves, shrill neighing, and the clarion call of a horn.

"The Hunters, my lord?" Tatsumi asked shakily.

"Yes," he sighed. "To place this burden upon you, or your friends, is unfair, Seiichiro. And dangerous. Demons lie waiting in the dark, their masters anticipating. To do less, and more, would draw their attention, begin events that should not happen. Not now."

"Yes, my lord," came the swift assent. After a long, expectant silence, the sadness on the deity's face replaced with soft look of love, the Shinigami whispered, "My lord. . .Enma-sama. . ."

"Come." He lifted his hand, the long, full sleeve billowing slightly in an unfelt breeze. With a smile of true joy, he welcomed the head of dark hair that stole into his lap, the mortal body curled around his knees.

"Beloved. How I missed you so."

* * *

**Delphinium: **Heaven

* * *

**Note: latest ruling of 'no review replies'...sucks.**


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